LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



Chap. Copyright M. 

Sheif.P._g..i\^^\ 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 




3beal Portrait of Cl^rtst. 



THE VISIOiN OF CHHIST 1/N 
THE POETS 

AS INTERPRETED BY 

MILTON, WORDSWORTH, 

THE BROWNINGS, TENNYSON, WHITTIER, 

LONGFELLOW, LOWELL 



EDITED BY CHAS. M. STUART 

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY PROF. C. W. PEARSON 

OF NORTHWESTERN UNIVERSITY 



n-'^ 

'V 



vAl'\UC^-l-\ 



CINCINNATI : CURTS & JENNINGS 

NEW YORK: EATON & MAINS 

1896 



^^ 



9^1 




COPYRIGHT 

BY CURTS & JENNINGS, 

1896. 



INTRODUCTION 



Poetry rests upon the same basis as architec- 
ture, sculpture, painting, and music, and, even more 
than any of these noble arts, reflects the general 
character of the race that produces it. As the race 
rises, its poetry rises also. Every increase of knowl- 
edge ; every refinement in manners ; every growth 
of justice, of kindness, of human sympath}^ ; every 
new perception of spiritual truth, — is speedily rep- 
resented in the poetry of a nation. 

The names given to the poet are significant; 
and the fact that in every nation they are the same, 
is also full of meaning. What are these names? 
The poet is the seer, who pierces some of the veils 
of sense and of futurity; he is the sijiger, who gives 
melody and beauty to the language ; he is the 
prophet, who must speak because of the burden 
upon his heart. In old English he is called "the 
maker," and that, indeed, is the meaning of the 
word "poet," because he makes what is most valu- 
able and permanent in the world — not clothing or 
houses or machinerj', but faith and hope and 
charity. 

3 



4 INTRODUCTION. 

It is for this reason that one of the noblest of 
modern poets has said : 

"Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, 
Who gave us nobler loves and nobler cares : 
The poets, who on earth have made us heirs 
Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays." 

We, all of us, even the most busy and the most 
prosaic, value our poetry more than our prose. In- 
deed, we are, most of us, poetically richer than we 
are aware of, and would be surprised if we were to 
take an accurate stock of our poetic wealth. Most 
of what any of us can quote is poetry— the poetry 
of the hymn-book, the poetry of sentiment, the po- 
etry of heroism, the poetry of humor, the poetry 
learned in childhood, or that which we have gone 
to for relief and inspiration amid the cares and sor- 
rows of life. It is wonderful how much poetry the 
average man or woman has in conscious or, more 
frequently, in unconscious memory. A hymn is 
sung in Church or social meeting; you had never 
committed it to memory, and did not know that you 
knew it; but you join in the singing, and, as you 
proceed, each line suggests its successor, and 5^ou 
discover that it had been appropriated by your mind 
without any conscious effort on your part. 

Although our century is so remarkable for its 
scientific discoveries and its mechanical achieve- 
ments, it is not the less an earnestly religious and 
spiritual age. The poetry of an epoch is always 
the best index of its spirit, and our modern poetry 



INTRODUCTION. 5 

is, on the whole, remarkably pure and devout. It 
reflects the increased purity and deeper sympathy 
of our times. 

Modern poetry is not merely more moral ; it 
is also more spiritual. Milton's great epic was 
written to "justify the ways of God to men," and 
nobly, from the point of view of his time, did he 
accomplish his great aim. Yet " Paradise Lost," 
with all its artistic and moral excellences, with its 
matchless variety and power of verse, with its sub- 
limity of imagination, its awful warnings against 
sin, its noble lessons of duty, and its glorious 
praises of justice and loyalty, is yet lacking in one 
element — that of tenderness. God is the Creator 
and Judge, rather than the Father and Friend, of 
man. "Paradise Lost" reflects the stern Puritan 
theology of its author's time. It was an age of 
creed-makers, and the intellect had unduly and in- 
juriously triumphed over the intuitions and affec- 
tions of men. 

In this respect it is quite unlike the nineteenth- 
century poetry, of which this "Vision of Christ " is 
chiefly composed. Wordsworth, Tennyson, Brown- 
ing, and Longfellow appeal much less to the reason 
than to the spiritual intuitions. They do not an- 
tagonize or ignore reason; they simply do not make 
it their sole criterion of truth. They enter more 
deeply into sympathy with the central truth of 
Christianity, that we are saved by faith and hope 
and love. They do not strive against reason ; they 
simply seek to re-enforce it by other faculties, and 



6 INTRODUCTION. 

to go beyond it into regions which, without aid, it 
is powerless to explore. 

Modern English poetry is thus a sublimer 
"Vision of Christ," the Elder Brother, the Teacher 
of the law of love, the spiritual I^eader and Ideal 
of man, than the English poetry of any preceding 
epoch. It has none of the jangling and bitterness 
which disfigure so much of earlier religious poetry, 
and even appear in '' Paradise Lost." Whittier 
expresses the modern feeling that, with all diversi- 
ties of method and opinion, with all varieties of 
vesture and symbol, there is a great underlying 
unity of aspiration and purpose, throughout Chris- 
tendom, as he sings : 

" O Lord and Master of us all, 
Whate'er our name or sign, 
We own thy sway, we hear thy call, 
We test our lives by thine!" 

The Son of man is the central figure of modern 
poetry. Milton's first vision of him is in the ode 
on the '' Morning of Christ's Nativity." The cen- 
tral thought of the poem is, that his birth is the 
death of paganism, that his light drives away 
heathen darkness, and his truth heathen error. 
Now, that he has come, 

"The oracles are dumb: 

No voice or hideous hum 
Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving; 

Apollo from his shrine, 

Can no more divine, 
With hollow shriek, the steep of Delphos leaving." 



INTRODUCTION. 7 

The poets ignore time and secondary causes. 
They see into the purposes of God, with whom 
"one day is as a thousand years," and represent 
that as done suddenly and by one act which is 
really accomplished slowly and by many subsidiary 
agencies. So, Mrs. Browning similarly represents 
Christ's triumph ; but represents his victory over 
paganism, not as taking place at his nativity, but 
in that dreadful moment when, amid his last agony, 
he said, *' It is finished !" 

In her poem, " The Dead Pan," she says : 

" 'T was the hour when One in Zion 
Hung for love's sake on the cross; 
When his brow was chill with dying, 

And his soul was faint with loss ; 
When his priestly blood dropped downward, 
And his kingly eyes looked throneward, — 
Then, Pan was dead." 

The supreme expression in our century of the 
struggle between faith and doubt in the soul of 
man is Tennyson's " In Memoriam." The alterna- 
tions of hope and despair, in their intensity, are 
like the spiritual wrestlings of Paul and of Luther, 
of Bunyan and of Wesley. The heart rebels 
against a materialistic science. 

" We are not cunning casts in clay." 

The soul's intuitions affirm that we are sons of God. 

" If e'er when faith had fallen asleep, 

I heard a voice, Believe no more ; . . . 



8 INTRODUCTION. 

A warmth within the heart would melt 
The freezing reason's colder part, 
And, like a man in wrath, the heart 

Rose up, and answered, I have felt !" 

Tennyson teaches that " I^ove is creation's final 
law." He sees that there is 

" One God, one law, one element, 

And one far-off divine event, 
To which the whole creation moves ;" 

and in the meantime, while the work is yet incom- 
plete, his trust is in that 

"Strong Son of God, immortal Love, 

Whom we, that have not seen thy face, 
By faith, and faith alone, embrace. 
Believing where we can not prove." 

This, too, is the burden of Browning's " Saul :" 

"Would I fain in my impotent yearning do all for this man. 
And dare doubt He alone will not do it, who yet alone can ?" 

The poets are not less emphatic in teaching the 
duty of love to man. lyOwell makes Jesus say that 
he is the truest disciple, and best remembers his 
lyord's last command, who most loves and helps his 
neighbor : 

** The Holy Supper is kept, indeed. 
In whatso we share with another's need — 
Not what we give, but what we share ; 
For the gift without the giver is bare. 
Who gives himself with his alms, feeds three : 
Himself, his hungering neighbor, and Me." 



INTRODUCTION. 9 

We have spoken of faith and love. There is 
another member of the great trinity of Christian 
graces — hope. The poets trust that "good" 

"Will be the final goal of ill ;" 
and that 

"What God made best, can't end worst, 
Nor what he blessed once, prove accurst." 

Even upon the dark shadow of sin they seek to 
cast some light. 

The conclusion of Longfellow's " Golden Le- 
gend," his great poem of mediaeval Christianity, is 
in these striking lines, as he sees the personification 
of all evil baffled in his designs and fleeing away : 

"It is Lucifer, 
The son of mystery : 
And, since God suffers him to be, 
He, too, is God's minister, 
And labors for some good 
By us not understood!" 

It is the purpose of the greater poets to point 
men to higher destinies ; to teach them to live 
pure and noble lives here, and to look forward with 
faith and hope to a greater glory hereafter, when 
they shall be satisfied with the Divine likeness. 

The lark that makes his lowly nest upon the 
ground, and yet sings as he rises heavenward, "as 
though he had learned music and motion of an 
angel," is a fit emblem of a Christian poet; for 
he is a 

"Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam. 
True to the kindred points of heaven and home." 



lO INTRODUCTION. 

Poetry is " the vision and the faculty divine." 
It not only points out the celestial city, but it cheers 
and beautifies the pathway to it. To the psalmist 
the heavens declared the Creator's glory. To the 
modern poet the seasons, as they change, are but 
" the varied God." To the eye of the seer the 
world is .symbolical, and he who will consider, not 
the lilies only, but "the grass, which, to-day is and 
to-morrow is cast into the oven," will find it full of 
beauty; for, as William Watson, the gifted English 
singer, who is so nobly carrying forward the best 
traditions of our literature, says : 

"The poet gathers fruit from every tree; 
Yea, grapes from thorns and figs from thistles, he ; 
Plucked by his hand, the meanest weed that grows. 
Towers to the lily, reddens to the rose," 

Poetry, as it is the first and noblest, may also be 
the last of the fine arts. When our present tongues 
have ceased, and our present knowledge has van- 
ished away; when painting, sculpture, and archi- 
tecture shall seem but as the games of children, — 
men, in the likeness of angels, as they walk by the 
river of the water of life, and stand amid the splen- 
dors of the city of pearl and gold, will still treasure 
poetry ; for will they not sing the song of Moses 
and of the I,amb, and will they not 

" In heaven, above the starry spheres 
Their happy hours in joy and hymning spend?" 

CHARLES W. PEARSON. 
Northwestern University. 



CONTENTS. 



Page. 
INTRODUCTION, 3 

JOHN MIIvTON, 2T 

COMUS, 22 

The Courage of Obedience, 37 

On His Bwndness, 38 

The Better Part, 38 

The Flight of Time, 39 

On the Morning of Christ's Nativity, 40 

WIIvLIAM WORDSWORTH, 53 

Ode on Intimations of Immortai^itv, 54 

Character of the Happy Warrior, 62 

Ode to Duty, 65 

The Wored is Too Much with Us, 67 

The IvOve of Books, 68 

The Gain of Books, ... 68 

After-thought, 69 

The PIvEasures of Life, 70 

ElvIZABHTH BARRETT BROWNING, 73 

The Cry of the Chiedren, 74 

The Cry of the Human, 80 

Cowper's Grave, 86 

II 



12 CONTENTS. 

Page. 

Work, 90 

Substitution, 91 

Futurity, ■. . . , 91 

The IvOok, 92 

The Meaning of the Look, 92 

Work and Contempi^ation, 93 



ROBERT BROWNING, 97 

An Epistle from Kharshish, the Arab Physi- 
cian, 98 

Saui., 107 

Rabbi Ben Ezra, 122 

Christmas-eve, 131 

Easter-day, 140 

AIvFRED TENNYSON, 153 

In Memoriam 154 

The Pai^ace of Art, 180 

The Passing of Arthur, 189 

In the Chii^dren's Hospital, 197 

Merlin and the Gleam, 203 

Sir Galahad, 208 

The Higher Pantheism, 211 

Crossing the Bar, 213 

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER, 217 

Our Master, 218 

The Eternal Goodness, 224 

My Soul and I, , 227 



CONTENTS. 1 3 

Page. 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, 237 

The Legend Beautifui., 238 

The BIvIGht of Wori,di,iness, 242 

The Ladder of St. Augustine, 245 

The Sifting of Peter, 247 

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL, 251 

The Vision of Sir Launfai., 252 

A Gr^ANCE Behind the Curtain, 265 

The Search, 271 

A ParabIvE, 273 

NOTES: 

On John Mutton, 277 

On Wii,i.iam Wordsworth, 289 

On Ewzabeth Barrett Browning, ....... 291 

On Robert Browning, 293 

On Ai^fred Tennyson, . 296 

On John Greeni^eaf Whittier, 302 

On Henry Wadsworth LongfeIvI^ow, 303 

On James Russei^i. Lowei,!,, 303 



ILLUSTRATIONS 



Portrait of Christ, Frontispiece. ^ 

John Mutton, Facing page 19 ■ 



William Wordsworth, 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning, 

Robert Browning, 

Alfred Tennyson, 

John Greenleaf Whittier, • . 
Henry Wadsworth Lonfellow, 
James Russell i^owell, .... 



71 V 
95^ 



151' 
215 
235 
249 



15 



ACKNOWLEDGMENT. 



The selections from Whittier, Longfellow, and 
lyOwell, in this book, are taken by permission of, and 
by special arrangement with, Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 
publishers of their works. 
i6 



THE VISION OF CHRIST IN THE 
POETS. 



ii 



ill 



Let visions of the night or of the day 
Come as they will ; and many a time they come^ 
Until this earth he walks on seems not earthy 
This light that strikes his eyeball is not light, 
This aif that strikes his forehead is not air, 
But vision — yea, his very hand and foot — 
In moments when he feels he can not die, 
And knows himself no vision to himself. 
Nor the high God a vision, nor that One 

Who rose again, 

— The Holy Grail. 
i8 




^^^ fVl^Uur^ 



JOHN MILTON. 



As to other points, -what God may have determined for me 
I know not ; but this I know^ that if he ever instilled an intense 
love of moral beauty into the breast of any man^ he has instilled 
it into mine. Ceres^ in the fable^ pursued not her daughter with 
a greater keenness of inquiry than I, day and night, the idea of 

perfection. 

— Milton: Letter to a Friend. 



JOHN MILTON.. 

{1608=1674.) 

Milton was at once poet, publicist, scholar, contro- 
versialist, statesman, and musician. From his twelfth 
year he hardly ever retired from his studies until mid- 
night. This was the first source of injury to his eyes, 
the use of which he subsequently lost altogether. His 
father was a scrivener or writer, a musician, and a Prot- 
estant. The two last qualities were part of the son's 
inheritance. John was born in lyondon, December 9, 
1608, and at sixteen entered Cambridge University, 
from which he was graduated in due time with the 
Bachelor's and Master's degrees. After five years in 
retirement at Horton, Milton, in 1638, visited the Con- 
tinent, being absent fifteen months. Upon his return 
he began at once to take part in the political and re- 
ligious controversies of the time, and in 1649 became 
Secretary of Foreign Tongues under the new Common- 
w^ealth. After the Restoration he went into hiding until 
the Act of Indemnity assured him of safety. " Paradise 
Lost," for the copyright of which he received twenty- 
five dollars, was completed in 1663; and in 1670, "Para- 
dise Regained" and "Samson Agonistes" were pub- 
lished. November 8, 1674, he died. Milton was thrice 
married, and by his first wife he had three daughters. 
His family became extinct in the third generation. 

Poems. Globe edition, edited by David Masson. 

lyiFE. By David Masson ; also, by Stopford Brooke. 

21 



22 JOHN MILTON. 



COMUS. 



The name "Comus" was given to this production after 
Millon's death. Its proper description is, "A Masque pre- 
sented at Ludlow Castle, 1634, before the Barl of Bridge- 
water, Lord President of Wales." A ''masque" is a species 
of drama, usually designed for a special festive occasion, 
and for family representation. Our selections include only 
the most notable passages. The teaching of this noble 
composition is, that purity is the cardinal virtue, the source 
of the highest beauty of character, and the fountain of in- 
vincible strength. 

COMUS. 

A young lady (Virtue) is separated from her two broth- 
ers in the depth of a wild wood at night. She is met by 
Comus (Temptation), who seeks to ply his arts upon her in 
vain. He proposes force; but the brothers, directed by the 
sister's Attendant Spirit, appear in time to put him and his 
revelers to rout. The motive of the poem is indicated in 
the soliloquy of the Attendant Spirit : 

Before the starry threshold of Jove's court 
My mansion is, where those immortal shapes 
Of bright aerial spirits live insphered 
In regions mild of calm and serene air, 
Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot 
Which men call Earth, and, with low-thoughted care, 
Confined and pestered in this pinfold^ here, 
Strive to keep up a frail and feverish being, 
Unmindful of the crown that Virtue gives, 
After this mortal change,^ to her true servants 
Amongst the enthroned gods on sainted seats. . 
Yet some there be that by due steps aspire 



COMUS. 23 

To lay their just hands on that golden key 
That opes the palace of eternity. 
To such my errand is ; and, but for such, 
I would not soil these pure ambrosial weeds^ 
With the rank vapors of this sin-worn mold. 

THE STAY OF VIRTUE. 

The following beautiful passage occurs iu the medita- 
tion of the young lady while she is combating her natural 
fear of being alone in the darkness and wildness of the 
forest : 

A thousand fantasies 
Begin to throng into my memory, 
Of calling shapes, and beckoning shadows dire, 
And airy tongues that syllable men's names 
On sands and shores and desert wildernesses. 
These thotights may startle well, but not astound 
The virtuous mind, that ever walks attended 
By a strong siding* champion. Conscience. 
O, welcome, pure-eyed Faith, white-handed Hope, 
Thou hovering angel girt with golden wings, 
And thou, unblemished form of Chastity!^ 
I see thee visibly, and now believe 
That He, the Supreme Good, to whom all things ill 
Are but as slavish officers of vengeance. 
Would send a glistering guardian, if need were, 
To keep my life and honor unassailed.^ 

The brothers, who are debating the situation of their 
sister, whom they naturally suppose to be in peril, give 
utterance to their different convictions in the foUowinar dia- 



24 JOHN MILTON. 

logue. The second brother anticipates a sorry and tragic 
outcome, to which replies the 

First Brother. Peace, brother: be not over-ex- 
quisite^ 
To cast^ the fashion of uncertain evils ; 
For, grant they be so,^ while they rest unknown. 
What need a man forestall his date of grief, 
And run to meet what he would most avoid ? 
Or, if they be but false alarms of fear, 
How bitter is such self-delusion ! 
I do not think my sister so to seek,i^ 
Or so unprincipled^^ in virtue's book, 
And the sweet peace that goodness bosoms ever. 
As that the single want of light and noise 
(Not being in danger, as I trust she is not) 
Could stir^"^ the constant mood of her calm thoughts. 
And put them into misbecoming plight. 
Virtue could see to do what Virtue would 
By her own radiant light, though sun and moon 
Were in the flat sea sunk. And Wisdom's self 
Oft seeks to^^ sweet retired solitude. 
Where, with her best nurse. Contemplation, 
She plumes her feathers, and lets grow her wings, 
That, in the various bustle of resort. 
Were all to-ruffled,^^ and sometimes impaired. 
He that has light within his own clear breast 
May sit i' the center,^^ and enjoy bright day : 
But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts 
Benighted walks under the mid-day sun; 
Himself is his own dungeon. 



COM us. 25 

Second Brother. 'T is most true 

That musing Meditation most affects^^ 
The pensive secrecy of desert cell, 
Far from the cheerful haunt of men and herds, 
And sits as safe as in a senate-house ; 
For who would rob a hermit of his weeds, 
His few books or his beads, or maple dish, 
Or do his grey hairs any violence? 
But Beauty, like the fair Hesperian tree^^ 
Laden with blooming gold, had need the guard 
Of dragon-watch with unenchanted eye 
To save her blossoms, and defend her fruit. 
From the rash hand of bold Incontinence.^^ 
You may as well spread out the unsunned heaps 
Of miser's treasure by an outlaw's den. 
And tell me it is safe, as bid me hope 
Danger will wink on^^ Opportunity, 
And let a single helpless maiden pass 
Uninjured in this wild surrounding waste. 
Of night or loneliness it recks me not '^^ 
I fear the dread events that dog^^ them both, 
Lest some ill-greeting touch attempt the person 
Of our unowned-^ sister. 

First Brother. I do not, brother, 

Infer^^ as if I thought my sister's state 
Secure without all doubt or controversy ; 
Yet, where an equal poise of hope and fear 
Does arbitrate th' event, my nature is 
That I incline to hope rather than fear. 
And gladly banish squint^^ suspicion. 
My sister is not so defenseless left 



26 JOHN MILTON. 

As 3^ou imagine; she has a hidden strength, 
Which you remember not. 

Second Brother. What hidden strength, 

Unless the strength of Heaven, if 3^011 mean that? 

First Brother. I mean that too, but j^et a hidden 
strength, 
Which, if Heaven gave it, may be termed her 

own. 
'T is chastity, my brother, chastity : 
She that has that is clad in complete steel, 
And, like a quivered nyniph'^''' with arrows keen, 
May trace-^' huge forests, and unharbored heaths, 
Infamous''^^ hills, and sandy perilous wilds ; 
Where, through the sacred rays of chastity. 
No savage fierce, bandite,^^ or mountaineer, 
Will dare to soil her virgin purity. 
Yea, there where very desolation dwells, 
By grots and caverns shagged'^*' with horrid shades, 
She ma)^ pass on with unblenched'^*^ majesty, 
Be it not done in pride, or in presumption. 
Some say no evil thing that walks by night, 
In fog or fire, by lake or moorish fen. 
Blue meager hag, or stubborn unlaid ghost. 
That breaks his magic chains at curfew time. 
No goblin or swart'^^ faery of the mine. 
Hath hurtful power o'er true virginity. 
Do ye believe me yet, or shall I call 
Antiquity'^- from the old schools of Greece 
To testify the arms^'^ of chastity? 
Hence had the huntress Dian''^ her dread bow. 
Fair silver-shafted qiieen forever chaste, 



COMUS. 27 

Wherewith she tamed the brinded^^ lioness 
And spotted mountain-pard, but set at naught 
The frivolous bolt of Cupid ; gods and men 
Feared her stern frown, and she was queen o' the 

woods. 
What was that snaky-headed Gorgon^^ shield 
That wise Minerva wore, unconquered virgin, 
Wherewith she freezed her foes to congealed stone, 
But rigid looks of chaste austerity, 
And noble grace that dashed^^ brute violence 
With sudden adoration and blank awe? 
So dear to Heaven is saintly chastity 
That when a soul is found sincerely so, 
A thousand liveried angels lackey^^ her. 
Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt, 
And in clear dream and solemn vision 
Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear ; 
Till oft^^ converse with heavenly habitants 
Begin to cast a beam on the outward shape. 
The unpolluted temple of the mind. 
And turns it by degrees to the soul's essence. 
Till all be made immortal. But, when lust, 
By unchaste looks, loose gestures, and foul talk, 
But most by lewd and lavish act of sin, 
I^ets in defilement to the inward parts. 
The soul grows clotted"^^ by contagion, 
Imbodies, and imbrutes,^^ till she quite lose 
The divine property of her first being.^^ 
Such are those thick and glooni}^ shadows damp 
Oft seen in charnel-vaults and sepulchers, 
I/ingering and sitting by a new-made grave, 



28 JOHN MILTON. 

As loth to leave the body that it loved, 
And linked itself by carnal sensualty 
To a degenerate and degraded state. 

The Attendant Spirit, having found the brothers, 
warns them of the sister's danger from Comus and his 
ba,nd of revelers, vv^hich evokes from the elder brother a 
noble defense of God's care for the innocent and pure in 
heart. 

Attendant Spirit. I '11 tell ye. 'T is not vain or 
fabulous 
(Though so esteemed by shallow ignorance) 
What the sage poets/^ taught by the heavenly Muse, 
Storied of old in high immortal verse 
Of dire Chimeras'** and enchanted isles,*^ 
And rifted rocks whose entrance leads to Hell; 
For such there be, but unbelief is blind. 

Within the navel'^^ of this hideous wood, 
Immured in cypress shades, a sorcerer dwells. 
Of Bacchus and of Circe born, great Comus, 
Deep skilled in all his mother's witcheries. 
And here to every thirsty wanderer 
By sly enticement gives his baneful cup, 
With many murmurs*^ mixed, whose pleasing poison 
The visage quite transforms of him that drinks. 
And the inglorious likeness of a beast 
Fixes instead, unmolding"*^ reason's mintage 
Charactered'*^ in the face. This have I learnt 
Tending my flocks hard by i' the hilly crofts^^ 
That brow this bottom glade; whence night by 

night 
He and his monstrous rout are heard to howl 



COMUS. 29 

lyike stabled wolves,^^ or tigers at their prey, 

Doing abhorred rites to Hecate^^ 

In their obscured haunts of inmost bowers. 

Yet have the}- many baits and guileful spells 

To inveigle and invite the unwary sense 

Of them that pass unweeting^-^ by the wa}^ 

This evening late, by then the chewing flocks 

Had ta'en their supper on the savory herb 

Of knot-grass dew-besprent,^^ and were in fold, 

I sat me down to w^atch upon a bank 

With ivy canopied, and interwove 

With flaunting honej^suckle, and began, 

Wrapt in a pleasing fit of melancholj^, 

To meditate my rural minstrels}^ 

Till fancy had her fill. But ere a close 

The wonted roar was up amidst the w^oods, 

And filled the air with barbarous dissonance ; 

At which I ceased and listened them a while, 

Till an unusual stop of sudden silence 

Gave respite to the drowsy-flighted^'^ steeds 

That draw the litter of close-curtained Sleep. 

At last a soft and solemn-breathing sound 

Rose like a steam of rich distilled perfumes, 

And stole upon the air, that ^^ even Silence 

Was took ere she was ware, and wished she might 

Deny her nature, and be never more, 

Still ^^ to be so displaced. I was all ear. 

And took in strains that might create a soul 

Under the ribs of Death. But, O ! ere long 

Too well I did perceive it w^as the voice 

Of my most honored L,ady, your dear sister. 



30 JOHN MILTON. 

Amazed I stood, harrowed with grief and fear; 

And "O poor hapless nightingale," thought I, 

" How sweet thou sing'st, how near the deadly 

snare !" 
Then down the lawns^^ I ran with headlong haste, 
Through paths and turnings often trod by day, 
Till, guided by mine ear, I found the place 
Where that damned wizard, hid in sly disguise 
(For so by certain signs I knew), had met 
Already, ere my best speed could prevent, 
The aidless innocent lady, his wished prey ; 
Who gently asked if he had seen such two. 
Supposing him some neighbor villager, 
lyonger I durst not stay, but soon I guessed 
Ye were the two she meant; with that I sprung 
Into swift flight, till I had found you here ; 
But further know I not. 

Second Brother. O night and shades, 

How are ye joined with hell in triple knot 
Against the unarmed weakness of one virgin, 
Alone and helpless ! Is this the confidence 
You gave me, brother? 

First Brother. Yes, and keep it still ; 

Lean on it safely ; not a period'^^ 
Shall be unsaid for me. Against the threats 
Of malice or of sorcery, or that power 
Which erring men call Chance, this I hold firm : 
Virtue may be assailed, but never hurt, 
Surprised by unjust force, but not enthralled ;^^ 
Yea, even that which Mischief meant most harm 
Shall in the happy trial prove most glory.*^ 



COM us. 31 

But evil on itself shall back recoil, 

And mix no more with goodness, when at last, 

Gathered like scum, and settled to itself, 

It shall be in eternal restless change, 

Self- fed and self-consumed. If this fail. 

The pillared firmament is rottenness. 

And earth's base built on stubble. But come, 

let 's on ! 
Against the opposing will and arm of Heaven 
May never this just sword be lifted up ; 
But, for that damned magician, let him be girt 
With all the griesly'^^ legions that troop 
Under the sooty flag of Acheron, ^^ 
Harpies and Hydras, ^"^ or all the monstrous forms 
'Twixt Africa and Ind, I '11 find him out, 
And force him to return his purchase'^^''' back. 
Or drag him by the curls to a foul death, 
Cursed as his life. 

Comus to tempt the Lady has had her brought to a 
stately palace set out with all manner of deliciousuess; soft 
music, tables spread with all dainties, and the Lady her- 
self iu an enchanted chair. Whereupon ensues the fol- 
lowing : 

Comus. Nay, Lady, sit. If I but wave this wand, 
Your nerves are all chained up in alabaster, 
And 3'ou a statue, or as Daphne^^ was, 
Root-bound, that fled Apollo. 

Lady. Fool, do not boast. 

Thou canst not touch the freedom of my mind 
With all thy charms, although this corporal rind^' 
Thou hast immanacled while Heaven sees good. 



32 JOHN MILTON. 

Comus. Why are you vexed, I^ady ? Why do 
you frown? 
Here dwell no frowns, nor anger ; from these gates 
Sorrow flies far. See, here be all the pleasures 
That fancy can beget on youthful thoughts. 
When the fresh blood grows lively, and returns 
Brisk as the April buds in primrose season. 
And first behold this cordial julep here, 
That flames and dances in his crystal bounds, 
With spirits of balm and fragrant syrups mixed. 
Not that Nepenthes^^ which the wife of Thone 
In Egypt gave to Jove-born Helena 
Is of such power to stir up joy as this, 
To life so friendly, or so cool to thirst. 
Why should you be so cruel to yourself, 
And to those dainty limbs, which Nature lent 
For gentle usage and soft delicacy? 
But you invert the covenants of her trust, 
And harshly deal like an ill borrower. 
With that which you received on other terms, 
Scorning the unexempt*^^ condition 
By which all mortal frailty must subsist, 
Refreshment after toil, ease after pain. 
That have been^^ tired all day without repast, 
And timely rest have wanted. But, fair virgin, 
This will restore all soon. 

Lady. 'Twill not, false traitor! 

'Twill not restore the truth and honesty 
That thou hast banished from thy tongue with lies. 
Was this the cottage and the safe abode 
Thou told'st me of? What grim aspects are these. 



COM us. 33 

These ugly-headed monsters? Mercy guard me! 
Heuce with thy brewed enchantments, foul de- 
ceiver ! 
Hast thou betrayed my credulous innocence 
With vizored^^ falsehood and base forgery? 
And wouldst thou seek again to trap me here 
With liquorish'- baits, fit to ensnare a brute? 
Were it a draught for Juno^^ when she banquets, 
I would not taste th}^ treasonous offer. None 
But such as are good men can give good things ; 
And that which is not good is not delicious 
To a well-governed and wise appetite. 

Comiis. O foolishness of men ! that lend their 
ears 
To those budge^* doctors of the Stoic"^ fur, 
And fetch their precepts from the Cynic'^ tub, 
Praising the lean and sallow Abstinence ! 
Wherefore did Nature pour her bounties forth 
With such a full and un withdrawing'^ hand, 
Covering the earth with odors, fruits, and flocks, 
Thronging the seas with spawn innumerable. 
But all to please and sate the curious taste ? 
And set to w^ork millions of spinning worms. 
That in their green shops weave the smooth-haired 

silk, 
To deck her sons; and, that no corner might 
Be vacant of her plenty, in her own loins 
She hutched^^ the all-worshiped ore and precious 

gems, 
To store her children with. If all the world 
Should, in a pet of temperance, feed on pulse/^ 

3 



34 JOHN MILTON, 

Drink the clear stream, and nothing wear but 

frieze,^^ 
The All-giver would be unthanked, would be un- 

praised, 
Not half his riches known, and yet despised; 
And we should serve him as a grudging master, 
As a penurious niggard of his wealth, 
And live like Nature's bastards, not her sons, 
Who would be quite surcharged with her own 

weight, 
And strangled with her waste fertility : 
The earth cumbered, and the winged air darked 

with plumes. 
The herds would over-multitude their lords ; 
The sea o'erfraught would swell, and the unsought 

diamonds^^ 
Would so emblaze the forehead of the deep. 
And so bestud with stars, that they below 
Would grow inured to light, and come at last 
To gaze upon the sun with shameless brows. 
List, I<ady ; be not coy, and be not cozened 
With that same vaunted name. Virginity. 
Beauty is Nature's coin ; must not be hoarded, 
But must be current ; and the good thereof 
Consists in mutual and partaken bliss, 
Unsavory in the enjoyment of itself. 
If you let slip time, like a neglected rose 
It withers on the stalk with languished head. 
Beauty is Nature's brag, and must be shown 
In courts, at feasts, and high solemnities. 
Where most may wonder at the workmanship. 



COM us. 35 

It is for homely features to keep home; 
They had their name thence : coarse complexions 
And cheeks of sorry grain^^ will serve to ply 
The sampler,^^ and to tease^^ the huswife's wool. 
What need a vermeil-tinctured^* lip for that, 
Love-darting eyes, or tresses like the morn? 
There was another meaning in these gifts ; 
Think what, and be advised; you are but young 
yet. 
Lady.^^ I had not thought to have unlocked 
my lips 
In this unhallowed air, but that this juggler 
Would think to charm my judgment, as mine eyes, 
Obtruding false rules pranked^*" in reason's garb. 
I hate when vice can bolt'='^ her arguments 
And virtue has no tongue to check her pride. 
Impostor ! do not charge most innocent Nature, 
As if she would her children should be riotous 
With her abundance. She, good cateress, 
Means her provision only to the good, 
That live according to her sober laws. 
And holy dictate of spare Temperance. 
If every just man that now pines with want 
Had but a moderate and beseeming share 
Of that which lewdly-pampered Luxury 
Now heaps upon some few with vast excess. 
Nature's full blessings would be well-dispensed 
In unsuperfluous even proportion, 
And she no whit encumbered with her store ; 
And then the Giver would be better thanked. 
His praise due paid : for swinish gluttony 



36 JOHN MILTON. 

Ne'er looks to Heaven amidst his gorgeous feast, 

But with besotted base-ingratitude 

Crams, and blasphemes his Feeder. Shall I go on ? 

Or have I said enow? To him that dares 

Arm his profane tongue with contemptuous words 

Against the sun-clad power of chastity 

Fain would I something say, — yet to what end? 

Thou hast nor ear, nor vSoul, to apprehend 

The sublime notion and high mystery 

That must be uttered to unfold the sage 

And serious doctrine of Virginity; 

And thou art worthy that thou shouldst not know 

More happiness than this thy present lot. 

Enjoy your dear wit, and gay rhetoric, 

That hath so well been taught her dazzling fence ; 

Thou art not fit to hear thyself convinced. 

Yet, should I try, the uncontrolled worth 

Of this pure cause would ^kindle my rapt spirits 

To such a flame of sacred vehemence 

That dumb things would be moved to sym'pathize. 

And the brute Karth would lend her nerves, and 

shake. 
Till all thy magic structures, reared so high, 
Were shattered into heaps o'er thy false head. 

Comus, defeated in his first measures, proposes others. 
At this point the brothers enter with drawn swords. Comus 
and his attendants escape. The aid of the goddess Sa- 
brina is invoked, the Lady is released from the spell of 
Comus' enchantment, and conveyed in safety to her home. 



SONNETS. 37 



THE COURAGE OF OBEDIENCE. 

Cyriack/ this three years' day these eyes, though 

clear, 
To outward view, of blemish or of spot, 
Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot; 
Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear 
Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the 3^ear, 
Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not 
Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot 
Of heart or hope, but still bear up and steer 
Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask? 
The conscience,^ friend, to have lost them overplied 
In lyiberty's defense, my noble task,^ 
Of which all Europe rings from side to side. 
This thought might lead me through the world's 

vain mask* 
Content, though blind, had I no better guide. 

'*TO EVERYTHING A SEASON.'^ 

Cyriack,^ whose grandsire on the royal bench 
Of British Themis,^ with no mean applause, 
Pronounced, and in his volumes taught, our laws, 
Which others at their bar so often wrench, 
To-day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench 
In mirth that after no repenting draws f 
Let Euclid rest, and Archimedes pause. 
And what the Swede intend, and what the French.* 
To measure life learn thou betimes, and know 
Toward solid good what leads the nearest way ; 



38 JOHN MILTON. 

For other things mild Heaven a time ordains,^ 
And disapproves that care, though wise in show,^ 
That with superfluous burden loads the day, 
And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains. 

ON HIS BLINDNESS. 

When I consider how my light is spent^ 

Ere half my days in this dark world and wide, 

And that one talent^ which is death to hide 

lyodged with me useless, though my soul more bent 

To serve therewith my Maker, and present 

My true account, lest He returning chide, 

" Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?" 

I fondly^ ask. But Patience, to prevent 

That murmur, soon replies, *'God doth not need 

Hither man's work or his own gifts. Who best 

Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best.^ His 

state 
Is kingly : thousands at his bidding speed. 
And post o'er land and ocean without rest ; 
They also serve who only stand and wait." 

THE BETTER PART. 

Lady,^ that in the prime of earliest youth 

Wisely hast shunned the broad way^ and the green, 

And with those few aft eminently seen 

That labor up the hill of heavenly Truth, 

The better part with Mary and with Ruth^ 

Chosen thou hast ; and they that overween,* 



SONA^ETS. 39 

And at thy growing virtues fret their spleen, 

No anger find in thee, but pity and ruth. 

Thy care is fixed, and zealously attends 

To fill thy odorous lamp with deeds of light, 

And hope that reaps not shame.^ Therefore be 

sure 
Thou, when the Bridegroom with his feastful friends 
Passes to bliss at the mid-hour of night, 
Hast gained thy entrance, Virgin wise and pure. 

THE FLIGHT OF TIME.i 

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth. 

Stolen on his wang my three-and-twentieth 3-ear!'^ 

My hasting days fly on wdth full career, 

But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th. 

Perhaps my semblance'^ might deceive the truth 

That I to manhood am arrived so near; 

And inward ripeness doth much less appear, 

That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th.* 

Yet, be it less or more, or soon or slow. 

It shall be stilP in strictest measure even^ 

To that same lot, however mean or high, 

Toward w^hich Time leads me, and the will of 

Heaven. 
All is,^ if I have grace to use it so. 
As ever in my great Task-Master's ey^. 



40 JOHN MILTON. 



ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY.^ 

It ; 

This is the month, and this the happy morn, 
Wherein the Son of Heaven's eternal King, 

Of wedded maid and virgin mother born. 
Our great redemption from above did bring; 
For so the holy sages^ once did sing, 

That he our deadly forfeit"^ should release, 

And with his Father work us a perpetual peace."* 

II. 

That glorious form, that light unsufferable, 
And that far-beaming blaze of majesty, 

Wherewith he wont^ at Heaven's high council-table 
To sit the midst of Trinal Unity, 
He laid aside, and, here with us to be,^ 

Forsook the courts of everlasting day, 

And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay. 

III. 

Say, Heavenly Muse, .shall not thy sacred vein 
Afford a present to the Infant God.-* 

Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain, 
To welcome him to this his new abode. 
Now, while the heaven, by the Sun's team" untrod. 

Hath took no print of the approaching light, 

And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons 
bright? 



ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY. 4 1 

IV. 

See how from far upon the eastern road 

The star-led wizards^ haste with odors sweet ! 

O ! run; prevent^ them with thy humble ode, 
And lay it lowly at his blessed feet; 
Have thou the honor first thy Lord to greet, 

And join thy voice unto the Angel Quire/^ 

From out his secret altar touched with hallowed 
fire.ii 

THE HYMN. 

I. 

It was the winter wild, 
While the heaven-born child 
All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies; 
Nature, in awe to him, 
Had doffed her gaudy^'^ trim, 
With her great Master so to sympathize : 
It was no season then for her 
To wanton with the Sun, her lusty paramour. 



IV. 

No war, or battle's sound, ^^ 
Was heard the world around ; 
The idle spear and shield were high uphung; 
The hooked^* chariot stood. 
Unstained with hostile blood ; 
The trumpet spake not to the armed throng ;^^ 
And kings sat still with awful^^ eye, 
As if they surely knew their sovran^ ^ lyord was by. 



42 JOHN MILTON. 

V. 

But peaceful was the night 
Wherein the Prince of Light 
His reign of peace upon the earth began. 
The winds, with wonder whist,^^ 
Smoothly the waters kissed, 
Whispering new joys to the mild Ocean,^^ 
Who now hath quite forgot to rave. 
While birds of calm^*^ sit brooding on the charmed 
wave. 

VI. 

The stars, with deep amaze, 
Stand fixed in steadfast gaze. 
Bending one way their precious influence,^- 
And will not take their flight. 
For all^^ the morning hght, 
Or Lucifer^^ that often warned them thence ; 
But in their glimmering orbs^^ did glow. 
Until their Lord himself bespake,^^ and bid them go. 

VII. 

And, though the shady gloom 
Had given day her room,^^ 
The sun himself withheld his wonted speed, 
And hid his head for shame, 
As^^ his inferior flame 
The new-enlightened world no more should need ; 
He saw a greater Sun appear 

Than his bright throne or burning axletree could 
bear. 



ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY. 43 

VIII. 

The shepherds on the lawn,^^ 
Or ere^^ the point of dawn, 
Sat simply chatting in a rustic row; 
Full little thought they than^^ 
That the mighty Pan^^ 
Was kindly come to live with them below: 
Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, 
Was all that did their silly^^ thoughts so busy keep. 

IX. 

When such music sweet 
Their hearts and ears did greet 
As never was by mortal finger strook,^^ 
Divinely-warbled voice 
Answering the stringed noise,^* 
As all their souls in blissful rapture took : 
The air, such pleasure loth to lose, 
With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly 
close.^^ 

X. 

Nature, that heard such sound 
Beneath the hollow round^^ 
Of Cynthia's seat the Airy region thrilling, 
Now was almost won 
To think her part was done, 
And that her reign had here its last fulfilling: 
She knew such harmony alone^^ 
Could hold all Heaven and Earth in happier union.^^ 



44 JOHN MILTON. 

XI. 

At last surrounds their sight 
A globe of circular light, 
That with long beams the shame-faced Night 
arrayed ; 
The helmed cherubim 
And sworded seraphim 
Are seen in glittering ranks with wings dis- 
played, 
Harping in loud and solemn quire,^^ 
With unexpressive'^'^ notes, to Heaven's new-born 
Heir. 

XII. 

Such music (as 't is said) 
Before was never made, 
But when of old the Sons of Morning sung,^^ 
While the Creator great 
His constellations set, 
And the well-balanced World on hinges hung, 
And cast the dark foundations deep, 
And bid the weltering''^ waves their oozy channel 
keep. 

XIII. 

Ring out, ye crystal spheres !^^ 
Once bless our human ears, 
If ye have power to touch our senses so; 
And let 3^our silver chime 
Move in melodious time ; 
And let the bass of heaven's deep organ blow ; 
And with your ninefold*'^ harmony 
Make up full consort''^ to the angelic symphony. 



ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY. 45 
XIV. 

For, if such holy song 
Enwrap our fancy long, 
Time will run back and fetch the Age of Gold \^^ 
And speckled^ ^ Vanity 
Will sicken soon and die. 
And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mold ; 
And Hell itself will pass away, 

And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering'^^ 
day. 

XV. 

' Yea, Truth and Justice then 
Will down return to men,"^^ 
Orbed in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing, 
Mercy will sit between, 
Throned in celestial sheen,^^ 
With radiant feet the tissued^^ clouds down 
steering; 
And Heaven, as at some festival, 
Will open wide the gates of her high palace-hall. 

XVI. 

But wisest Fate says, No, 
This must not yet be so ; 
The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy 
That on the bitter cross 
Must redeem our loss, 
So both himself and us to glorify ;^^ 
Yet first,^^ to those ychained^* in sleep. 
The w^akeful trump of doom must thunder through 
the deep. 



46 JOHN MILTON. 

XVII. 
With such a horrid clang 
As on Mount Sinai rang^^ 
While the red fire and smoldering clouds out- 
brake ; 
The aged Karth, aghast 
With terror of that blast, 
Shall from the surface to the center shake, 
When, at the world's last session, 
The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his 
throne.^*^ 

XVIII. 

And then at last our bliss 
Full and perfect is, 
But now begins ; for from this happy day 
The Old Dragon under ground, 
In straiter limits bound,^' 
Not half so far casts his usurped sway, 
And, wroth to see his kingdom fail. 
Swinges'''^ the scaly horror of his folded tail. 

XIX. 

The Oracles^^ are dumb; 
No voice or hideous hum 
Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. 
Apollo from his shrine 
Can no more divine, 
With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. 
No nightly trance, or breathed spell. 
Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic 
cell.^« 



'ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY. 47 
XX. 

The lonely mountains o'er, 
And the resounding shore, 
A voice of weeping heard and loud lament; 
From haunted spring, and dale 
Edged with poplar pale. 
The parting Genius is with sighing sent; 
With flower-inwoven tresses torn 
The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets 
mourn.^^ 

XXI. 

In consecrated earth. 
And on the holy hearth, 
The L,ars and I,emures^^ moan with midnight 
plaint ; 
In urns, and altars round, 
A drear and dying sound 
Afifrights the flamens*^^ at their service quaint f^ 
And the chill marble seems to sweat,^^ 
While each peculiar power foregoes his wonted seat. 

XXII. 

Peor and Baalim^^ 
Forsake their temples dim, 
With that twice-battered god of Palestine f^ 
And mooned Ashtaroth,^^ 
Heaven's queen and mother both, 
Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine : 
The Lybic Hammon^^ shrinks his horn ; 
In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz"" 
mourn. 



48 JOHN MILTON. 

XXIII. 

And sullen Moloch/^ fled, 
Hath left in shadows dread 
His burning idol all of blackest hue ; 
In vain with cymbals' ring 
They call the grisly^^ king, 
In dismal dance about the furnace blue ; 
The brutish gods^^ of Nile as fast, 
Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste. 

XXIV. 

Nor is Osiris seen 
In Memphian grove or green, 
Trampling the unshowered grass with lowings 
loud ;^* 
Nor can he be at rest 
Within his sacred chest ;^^ 
Nought but profoundest Hell can be his shroud ; 
In vain, with timbreled anthems dark, 
The sable-stoled sorcerers^^ bear his worshiped ark. 

XXV. 

He feels from Juda's land 
The dreaded Infant's hand; 
The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn ;" 
Nor all the gods beside 
lyOnger dare abide, 
Not Typhon^^ huge ending in snaky twine : 
Our Babe, to show his Godhead true, 
Can in his swaddling bands control the damned crew. 



ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY. 49 
XXVI. 

So, when the sun in bed,'^ 
Curtained with cloudy red, 
Pillows his chin upon an Orient wave, 
The flocking shadows pale 
Troop to the infernal jail. 
Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave,^*^ 
And the yellow-skirted fays^^ 

Fly after the night-steeds,^^ leaving their moon-loved 
maze. 

xxvii. 

But see ! the Virgin blest 
Hath laid her Babe to rest. 
Time is our tedious song should here have 
ending : 
Heaven's youngest-teemed star^^ 
Hath fixed^"^ her polished car, 
Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp at- 
tending ; 
And all about the courtly stable 
Bright-harnessed^^ angels sit in order serviceable.^^ 




-^/^^(.rry^ 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 



My theme 
No other than the very heart of man^ 
As found among the best of those who live. 
Not tjnexalted by religious faith^ 
Nor uninformed by books, good books, though few, 
In Nature's presence ; thence may I select 
Sorrow that is not sorrow, but delight; 
And miserable love, that is not pain 
To hear of, for the glory that redounds 
Therefrom to human kind, and what we are. 

— Wordsworth : The Prelude. 



52 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 

(1770=1850.) 

It is doubtful if any English poet, Shakespeare 
alone excepted, has had a deeper hold or more whole- 
some influence among the thoughtful part of the Eng- 
lish-speaking race than Wordsworth. Much of his 
matter is of slight account, but the remainder is of the 
highest and most enduring value. His interpretation 
of God, nature, the human heart, and the elemental 
qualities of right living, is characterized by the insight 
and penetration of divinel3--anointed eyes, and is ex- 
pressed with the simplicity and charm of nature her- 
self. The poet was born at Cockermouth, in Cumber- 
land, April 7, 1770, and at seventeen he was entered at 
Cambridge University. In 1791 he graduated. In 1802 
he married, and in 181 3 made his home at R^'dal Mount, 
where he died April 23, 1850. He visited the Conti- 
nent five times, and made three tours of Scotland. In 
1839, Oxford conferred upon him the degree of D. C. ly., 
and in 1842 he became poet laureate. 

Poems. Editions by Professor Wm. Knight and 
John INIorley. 

LiFK. By F. W. H. Myers. 

53 



54 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 



ODE 

ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF 
EARLY CHILDHOOD. 

In his preface to this great *'Ode," Wordsworth says: 
" To that dreamlike vividness and splendor which invest 
objects of sight in childhood, every one, I believe, if he 
would look back, could bear testimony. . . . But hav- 
ing in the poem regarded it as presumptive evidence of a 
prior state of existence, I think it right to protest against 
a conclusion, which has given pain to some good and pious 
persons, that I meant to inculcate such a belief. It is far 
too shadowy a notion to be recommended to faith as more 
than an element in our instincts of immortality. . . . 
Though the idea is not advanced in Revelation, there is 
nothing there to contradict it. ... A pre-existent state 
has entered into the popular creeds of many nations. . . . 
I took hold of the notion of pre-existence as having suffi- 
cient foundation in humanity for authorizing me to make 
for my purpose the best use of it I could as a poet." 



ThKRB was a time when meadow, grove, and. stream, 
The earth, and every common sight, 
To me did seem 
Appareled in celestial light, * 

The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
It is not now as it hath been of yore ; — 
Turn wheresoe'er I may. 
By night or day. 
The things which I have seen I now can see no 
more. 



ODE. 55 

The Rainbow comes and goes, 
And lovely is the Rose ; 
The Moon doth with delight 
l/ook round her when the heavens are bare ; 
Waters on a starry night 
Are beautiful and fair; 
The sunshine is a glorious birth, 
But yet I know, where'er I go. 
That there hath passed away a glory from the earth. 

in. 

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, 
And while the young lambs bound 
As to the tabor's sound, 
To me alone there came a thought of grief: 
A timely utterance gave that thought relief, 

And I again am strong : 
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep; 
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong; 
I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng. 
The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep,^ 
And all the earth is gay; 

I,and and sea 
Give themselves up to jollity, 

And with the heart of May 
Doth every Beast keep holiday ; — 
Thou Child of Joy, 
Shout round me ; let me hear thy shouts, thou happy 
Shepherd-boy ! 



56 ^ WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 

IV. 

Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call 

Ye to each other make ; I see 
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; 

My heart is at your festival, 

My head hath its coronal, 
The fullness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all. 

Oh, evil day ! if I were sullen 

While Earth herself is adorning, 
This sweet May-morning, 

And the Children are culling 
On every side, 

In a thousand valleys far and wide, 

Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines warm, 
And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's arm : — 

I hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! — 

But there 's a Tree, of many, one, 
A single Field which I have looked upon. 
Both of them speak of something that is gone 

The Pansy^ at my feet 

Doth the same tale repeat : 
Whither is fled the visionary gleam ? 
Where is it now, the glory and the dream ? 



V. 

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting •? 
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, 
Hath had elsewhere its setting, 
And cometh from afar : 



ODE. 57 

Not in entire forgetfulness, 

And not in utter nakednesss, 
But trailing clouds of glory do we come 

From God, who is our home : 
Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
Shades of the prison-house begin to close 

Upon the growing Boy, 
But He beholds the light, and whence it flows, 

He sees it in his joy ; 
The Youth, who daily farther from the east 

Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, 

And by the vision splendid 

Is on his way attended ; 
At length the Man perceives it die away, 
And fade into the light of common day. 

VI. 

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ; 

Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, 

And, even with something of a Mother's mind, 
And no unworthy aim. 
The homely Nurse doth all she can 

To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, 
Forget the glories he hath known. 

And that imperial palace whence he came. 

VII. 

Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, 
A six years' Darling of a pygmy size ! 
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, 
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, 



58 WILLIAM WORDSWORTIT. 

With light upon him from his father's eyes ! 
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 
Some fragment from his dream of human life, 
Shaped by himself with newly-learned art ; 

A wedding or a festival, 

A. mourning or a funeral ; 

And this hath now his heart, 

And unto this he frames his song : 

Then will he fit his' tongue » 

To dialogues of business, love, or strife ; 

But it will not be long 

Kre this be thrown aside, 

And with new joy and pride 
The little Actor cons another part ; 
Filling from time to time his ''humorous* stage 
With all the Persons,^ down to palsied Age, 
That Life brings with her in her equipage; 

As if his whole vocation 

Were endless imitation. 

VIII. 

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 

Thy Soul's immensity ; 
Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep 
Thy heritage, thou Bye among the blind,^ 
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, 
Haunted forever by the eternal mind, — 

Mighty Prophet ! Seer blest ! 

On whom those truths do rest. 
Which we are toiling all our lives to find. 
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave ; 



ODE. 59 

Thou, over whom thy Immortality 
Broods Hke the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, 
A Presence which is not to be put by ;^ 
Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might 
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, 
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 
The years to bring the inevitable yoke. 
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ? 
Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight. 
And custom lie upon thee with a weight, 
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life! 

IX. 

O joy ! that in our embers 
Is something that doth live, 
That nature yet remembers 
What was so fugitive ! 
The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
Perpetual benediction : not indeed 
For that which is most worthy to be blest — 
Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest. 
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his 
breast : — 
Not for these I raise 
The song of thanks and praise ; 
But for those obstinate questionings 
Of sense and outward things, 
Fallings from us, vanishings f 
Blank misgivings of a Creature 
Moving about in worlds not realized, 



6o WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 

High instincts before which our mortal Nature 
Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprised: 

But for those first affections, 

Those shadowy recollections, 
Which, be they what they may, 
Are yet the fountain light of all our day, 
Are yet a master light of all our seeing ; 

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 
Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
Of the eternal Silence : truths that wake, 

To perish never ; 
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor. 

Nor Man nor Boy, 
Nor all that is at emnity with joy, 
Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 

Hence in a season of calm weather 

Though inland far we be, 
Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea 

Which brought us hither, 

Can in a moment travel thither. 
And see the Children sport upon the shore, 
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 

X. 

Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song ! 
And let the young Lambs bound 
As to the tabor's sound ! 

We in thought will join your throng, 
Ye that pipe and ye that play. 
Ye that through your hearts to-day 
Feel the gladness of the May ! 



ODE. 6 1 

What though the radiance which was once so bright 
Be now forever taken from my sight, 

Though nothing can bring back the hour 
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower ; 

We will grieve not, rather find 

Strength in what remains behind; 

In the primal sympathy 

Which having been must ever be ; 

In the soothing thoughts that spring 

Out of human suffering; 

In the faith that looks through death, 
In years that bring the philosophic mind. 

XI. 

And O, 3^e Fountains, Meadows, Hills and Groves, 

Forebode not any severing of our loves ! 

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ; 

I only have relinquished one delight 

To live beneath your more habitual swa3^ 

I love the Brooks which down their channels fret, 

Even more than when I tripped lightly as they; 

The innocent brightness of a new-born Day 

Is lovely yet ; 
The Clouds that gather round the setting sun 
Do take a sober coloring from an eye 
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality ; 
Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 
Thanks to the human heart by which we live, 
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears. 
To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 



62 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 



CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR. 

"In this poem," says Mr. A. J. George, "we have the 
purest and noblest manifestation of that faith in God and 
immortality which characterized Wordsworth as a man and 
a poet. It is this truth, revealed not so much to the e3'e of 
reason as to the eye of the soul, which renders the life of 
men and of nations divine." 

Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he 
That every man in arms should wish to be ? 
It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought 
Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought 
Upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought '} 
Whose high endeavors are an inward light 
That makes the path before him always bright : 
Who, with a natural instinct to discern 
What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn ; 
Abides by this resolve, and stops not there. 
But makes his moral being his prime care ; 
Who, doomed to go in company with Pain, 
And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train ! 
Turns his necessity to glorious gain ; 
In face of these doth exercise a power 
Which is our human nature's highest dower ; 
Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves 
Of their bad influence, and their good receives : 
By objects, which might force the soul to abate 
Her feeling, rendered more compassionate. 
Is placable — because occasions rise 
So often that demand such sacrifice; 
More skillful in self-knowledge, even more pure, 



CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR. 63 

As tempted more ; more able to endure, 

As more exposed to suffering and distress ; 

Thence, also, more alive to tenderness. 

'T is he whose law is reason ; who depends 

Upon that law as on the best of friends ; 

Whence, in a state where men are tempted still 

To evil for a guard against worse ill, 

And what in quality or act is best 

Doth seldom on a right foundation rest. 

He labors good on good to fix, and owes 

To virtue every triumph that he knows : 

Who, if he rise to station of command. 

Rises b}^ open means ; and there will stand 

On honorable terms, or else retire. 

And in himself possess his own desire; 

Who comprehends his trust, and to the same 

Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim ; 

And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait 

For wealth, or honors, or for worldly state ; 

Whom the}^ must follow; on whose head must fall, 

Like showers of manna, if they come at all ■? 

Whose powers shed round him in the common 

strife, 
Or mild concerns of ordinary life, 
A constant influence, a peculiar grace; 
But who, if he be called upon to face 
Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined 
Great issues, good or bad for human kind, 
Is happy as a I^over; and attired 
With sudden brightness, like a Man inspired ; 
And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law 
In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw; 



64 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 

Or if an unexpected call succeed, 

Come when it will, is equal to the need: 

He who, though thus endued as with a sense 

And faculty for storm and turbulence, 

Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans 

To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes ; 

Sweet images ! which, wheresoe'er he be, 

Are at his heart ; and such fidelity 

It is his darling passion to approve; 

More brave for this, that he hath much to love : — 

'Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high. 

Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye, 

Or left unthought-of in obscurity, — 

Who, with a toward or untoward lot, 

Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not — 

Plays, in the many games of life, that one 

Where what he most doth value must be won : 

Whom neither shape of danger can dismay. 

Nor thought of tender happiness betray ; 

Who, not content that former worth stand fast, 

Looks forward, persevering to the last. 

From well to better, daily self-surpast : 

Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth 

Forever, and to noble deeds give birth. 

Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame, 

And leave a dead, unprofitable name — 

Finds comfort in himself and in his cause ; 

And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws 

His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause : 

This is the happy Warrior ; this is He 

That every Man in arms should wish to be.'^ 



ODE TO DUTY. 65 



ODE TO DUTY. 

The central thought of this ode is voiced in the Latin 
quotation^ which heads the poem in the editions of the au- 
thor's works, and which may be translated as follows: *' No 
longer good by conscious effort, but so led on to goodness 
by habit, that now I not only can do what is right, but am 
unable to do otherwise." 

Stern Daughter of the Voice of God ! 

O Duty ! if that name thou love 
Who art a light to guide, a rod 

To check the erring, and reprove ; 
Thou, who art victory and law 
When empty terrors overawe ; 
From vain temptations dost set free ; 
And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanit}^ ! 

There are who ask not if thine eye 

Be on them ; who, in love and truth, 
Where no misgiving is, rely 

Upon the genial^ sense of youth : 
Glad Hearts ! without reproach or blot 
Who do thy work, and know it not : 
O ! if through confidence misplaced 
They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around 
them cast. 

Serene will be our days and bright, 

And happy will our nature be. 
When love is an unerring light. 

And joy its own security. 
5 



66 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 

And they a blissful course may hold 
Even now, who, not unwisely bold, 
lyive in the spirit of this creed ; 
Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need. 

I, loving freedom, and untried ; 

No sport of every random gust, 
Yet being to myself a guide, 

Too blindly have reposed my trust : 
And oft, when in my heart was heard 
Thy timely mandate, I deferred 
The task, in smoother walks to stray ; 
But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may. 

Through no disturbance of my soul. 

Or strong compunction in me wrought, 
I supplicate for thy control ; 

But in the quietness of thought : 
Me this unchartered^ freedom tires ; 
I feel the weight of chance-desires : 
My hopes no more must change their name, 
I long for a repose that ever is the same. 

Stern Lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear 

The Godhead's most benignant grace ; 

Nor know we anything so fair 
As is the smile upon thy face '} 

Flowers laugh before thee on their beds. 

And fragrance in thy footing treads; 

Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong ; 
And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are 

fresh and strong. 



SONNETS. 67 

To humbler functions, awful Power ! 

I call thee : I myself commend 
Unto thy guidance from this hour ; 

O, let my weakness have an end ! 
Give unto me, made lowly wise, 
The spirit of self-sacrifice ; 
The confidence of reason give ; 
And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live ! 



**THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US; 
LATE AND SOON." 

Thk world is too much with us ; late and soon, 
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers : 
lyittle we see in Nature that is ours; 
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon ! 
The sea that bares her bosom to the moon ; 
The winds that will be howling at all hours, 
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; 
For this, for everything, we are out of tune ;^ 
It moves us not. — Great God ! I 'd rather be 
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn ; 
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea. 
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; 
Have sight of Proteus^ rising from the sea ; 
Or hear old Triton' blow his wreathed horn. 



68 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 



THE LOVE OF BOOKS. 

This sonnet, " The Love of Books," and the next, " The 
Gain of Books," are part of a series on "Personal Talk," 
in which the poet describes the felicity and inspiration of 
happy domestic life. Wordsworth's own home life ranks 
among the brightest and most enviable in literary history. 

Wings have we, — and as far as we can go, 
We may find pleasure : wilderness and wood, 
Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood 
Which with the lofty sanctifies the low. 
Dreams, books, are each a world ; and books, we 

know, 
Are a substantial world, both pure and good : 
Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, 
Our pastime and our happiness will grow. 
There find I personal themes, a plenteous store. 
Matter wherein right voluble I am, 
To which I listen with a ready ear ; 
Two shall be named, pre-eminently dear, — 
The gentle I^ady married to the Moor ;^ 
And heavenly Una with her milk-white I^amb.^ 

THE GAIN OF BOOKS. 

Nor can I not believe but that hereby 
Great gains are mine ; for thus I live remote 
From evil-speaking ; rancor, never sought. 
Comes to me not ; malignant truth, or lie. 
Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I 
Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous 
thought : 



SONNETS. 69 

And thus from day to day my little boat 
Rocks in its harbor, lodging peaceably. 
Blessings be with them, and eternal praise. 
Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares — 
The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs 
Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays ! 
O ! might my name be numbered among theirs, 
Then gladly would I end my mortal days.^ 



AFTER-THOUGHT. 

I thought of Thee, my partner and m}- guide, 
As being past away. — Vain sympathies ! 
For, backward, Duddon,^ as I cast my eyes, 
I see what was, and is, and will abide ; 
Still glides the Stream, and shall forever glide ; 
The Form remains, the Function never dies ; 
While we, the brave, the mighty, and the wise, 
We Men, who in our morn of youth defied 
The elements, must vanish ; — be it so ! 
Enough, if something from our hands have power 
To live, and act, and serve the future hour ; 
And if, as toward the silent tomb we go, 
Through love, through hope, and faith's transcend- 
ent dower, 
We feel that we are greater than we know. 



70 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 



THE PLEASURES OF LIFE. 

This sonnet bears the title, " Composed on a May Morn- 
ing, 1838." " Wordworth's soul," says Mr. A. J. George, 
"'wedded to this goodly universe in love and holy pas- 
sion,' could find no sphere from which the divine life was 
excluded, no sphere where joy was not 'in widest common- 
alty spread,' " 

LiFK with yon Lambs, like day, is just begun, 
Yet Nature seems to them a heavenly guide. 
Does joy approach? they meet the coming tide; 
And suUenness avoid, as now they shun 
Pale twilight's lingering glooms, — and in the sun 
Couch near their dams, with quiet satisfied; 
Or gambol — each with his shadow at his side, 
Varying its shape wherever he may run. 
As they from turf yet hoar with sleepy dew 
All turn, and court the shining and the green, 
Where herbs look up, and opening flowers are seen ; 
Why to God's goodness can not We be true. 
And so, His gifts and promises between, 
Feed to the last on pleasures ever new? 




^l^ 



Y^yiz£/iy72cr2crr2, 



"^ 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 



Wc want the touch of Christ^s hand upon our Uterattife as 
it touched other dead things ; we want the sense of the satura- 
tion of Christ's blood upon the souls of our poets, that it may cry- 
through them in answer to the ceaseless wail of the sphinx of 
our humanity expounding agony into renovation. 

— Mrs. Browning, 
72 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 

(1809=1861.) 

Elizabeth Barrett was well born and tenderly 
reared. Constitutionally delicate, and for long periods 
an invalid, she gave much attention to study. At ten 
she was reading Homer in Greek, and at nineteen she 
published a book of poems which attracted attention. 
Nothing good in literature, classical or modern, came 
amiss to her. Her unwearying industry and severe 
application were the astonishment of her phj-sicians. 
She was deeply and ardently religious, and about her 
deepest experiences she w^as as frank and open as a 
child. In 1846 she was married to Robert Browning, 
and went to live in Italy. In 1851, "Aurora Leigh" 
appeared, and in 1861 INIrs. Browning died in Florence. 
Intellectuality and spirituality are the dominant notes 
of her writing. She has been called the "sister of Ten- 
nyson," and "daughter of Shakespeare," nor would 
either be dispraised by the connection. 

Poems. In five volumes. Smith, Elder & Co. 

EiEE. By J. H. Ingram. 

73 



74 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 



THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. 

The poem was published in 1844, and was suggested by 
terrible privations endured at that time by children in Eng- 
lish mines and factories. It is credited with having hast- 
ened and helped the legislation restricting the employment 
of children of tender years. 

I. 

Do ye: hear the children weeping, O my brothers, 

Kre the sorrow comes with years ? 
They are leaning their young heads against their 
mothers, 

And that can not stop their tears. 
The young lambs are bleating in the meadows ; 

The young birds are chirping in the nest ; 
The young fawns are playing with the shadows ; 

The young flowers are blowing toward the west : 
But the young, young children, O my brothers ! 

They are weeping bitterly ; 
They are weeping in the playtime of the others, 

In the country of the free. 

II. 

Do you question the young children in their sorrow, 

Why their tears are falling so ? 
The old man may weep for his to-morrow, 

Which is lost in Long Ago ; 
The old tree is leafless in the forest ; 

The old year is ending in the frost ; 
The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest ; 

The old hope is hardest to be lost : 



THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. 75 

But the young, young children, O my brothers ! 

Do you ask them why they stand 
Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers, 

In our happy Fatherland? 

III. 

They look up with their pale and sunken faces, 

And their looks are sad to see ; 
For the man's hoary anguish draws and presses 

Down the cheeks of infancy. 
"Your old earth," they vSay, "is very dreary; 

Our 3'oung feet," they say, "are very weak: 
Few paces have we taken, yet are weary; 

Our grave-rest is very far to seek. 
Ask the aged why they weep, and not the children ; 

For the outside earth is cold, 
And we young ones stand without in our bewil- 
dering, 

And the graves are for the old. 

IV. 

"True," say the children, " it may happen 

That we die before our time : 
Little Alice died last year ; her grave is shapen 

Like a snowball in the rime.^ 
We looked into the pit prepared to take her ; 

Was no room for any work in the close cla}' : 
From the sleep wherein she lieth, none will wake her, 

Crying, 'Get up, little Alice ! it is day.' 
If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower, 

With 3^our ear down, little Alice never cries. 



76 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 

Could we see her face, be sure we should not know 
her; 

For the smile has time for growing in her eyes ; 
And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in 

The shroud by the kirk-chime. 
It is good when it happens," say the children, 

"That we die before our time." 

V. 

Alas! alas! the children! They are seeking 

Death in life, as best to have ; 
They are binding up their hearts away from breaking 

With a cerement^ from the grave. 
Go out, children, from the mine and from the city ; 

Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do ; 
Pluck your handfuls of the meadow-cowslips pretty; 

Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them 
thiough. 
But they answer : " Are your cowslips of the meadows 

lyike our weeds anear the mine ? 
lycave us quiet in the dark of the coal-shadows, 

From your pleasures fair and fine. 

VI. 

"For O!" say the children, " we are weary, 

And we can not run or leap : 
If we cared for any meadows, it were merely 

To drop down in them, and sleep. 
Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping ; 

We fall upon our faces, trying to go ; 



THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. 77 

And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping, 

The reddest flower would look as pale as snow ; 

For all day we drag our burdens tiring, 
Through the coal-dark, under-ground ; 

Or all day we drive the wheels of iron 
In the factories, round and round. 

VII. 

"For all day the wheels are droning, turning; 

Their wind comes in our faces, 
Till our hearts turn, our heads with pulses burning, 

And the walls turn in their places. 
Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling, 

Turns the long light that drops adown the wall. 
Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling, — 

All are turning, all the day, and we with all. 
And all day the iron wheels are droning. 

And sometimes we could pray, 
'O ye wheels' (breaking out in a mad moaning), 

'Stop ! be silent for to-day !' " 

VIII. 

Ay, be silent ! I^et them hear each other breathing 

For a moment, mouth to mouth ; 
I^et them touch each other's hands, in a fresh 
wreathing 

Of their tender human youth ; 
I,et them feel that this cold metallic motion 

Is not all the life God fashions or reveals ; 
I^et them prove their living souls against the notion 

That they live in you, or under you, O wheels ! 



78 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 

Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward, 

Grinding life down from its mark ; 
And the children's souls, which God is calling sun- 
ward. 

Spin on blindly in the dark. 

IX. 

Now tell the poor young children, O my brothers, 

To look up to Him, and pray; 
So the blessed One who blesseth all the others 

Will bless them another day. 
They answer, "Who is God, that he should hear us 

While the rushing of the iron wheels is stirred? 
When we sob aloud, the human creatures near us 

Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a word ; 
And we hear not (for the wheels in their re- 
sounding) 

Strangers speaking at the door. 
Is it likely God, with angels singing round him, 

Hears our weeping any more ? 

X. 

" Two words, indeed, of praying we remember; 

And at midnight's hour of harm, 
' Our Father,' looking upward in the chamber, 

We say softly for a charm.^ 
We know no other words except ' Our Father;' 
And we think that, in some pause of angels' 
song, 
God may pluck them with the silence sweet to 
gather, 



THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. 79 

And hold both within his right hand, which is 
strong. 
*Our Father!' If he heard us, he would surely 

(For they call him good and mild) 
Answer, smiling down the steep world ver}^ purely, 

' Come and rest with me, my child.' 

XI. 

" But, no !" say the children, weeping faster, 

'* He is speechless as a stone ; 
And they tell us, of his image is the master 

Who commands us to work on. 
Go to!" say the children — " up in heaven, 

Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all we find. 
Do not mock us : grief has made us unbelieving : 

We look up for God ; but tears have made us 
blind." 
Do you hear the children weeping and disproving, 

O my brothers, what ye preach? 
For God's possible is taught by his world's loving — 

And the children doubt of each. 

XII. 

And well may the children weep before you I 

They are wear}^ ere they run ; 
They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory 

Which is brighter than the sun. 
They know the grief of man, without its wisdom; 

They sink in man's despair, without its calm ; 
Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom ; 

Are martyrs, by the pang without the palm : 



8o ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 

Are worn as if with age, yet unretrievingly 
The harvest of its memories can not reap ; 

Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly — 
I^et them weep ! let them weep ! 

XIII. 

They look up with their pale and sunken faces, 

And their look is dread to see ; 
For they mind you of their angels in high places, 

With eyes turned on Deity. 
'' How long," they say, '' how long, O cruel nation, 

Will you stand, to move the world on a child's 
heart, — 
Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation. 

And tread onward to your throne amid the 
mart ? 
Our blood splashes upward, O gold-heaper, 

And your purple shows your path ! 
But the child's sob in the silence curses deeper 

Than the strong man in his wrath." 



THE CRY OF THE HUMAN. 
I. 
*' There is no God," the foolish saith,^ 

But none, "There is no sorrow;" 
And Nature oft the cry of faith 

In bitter need will borrow. 
Kyes which the preacher could not school 
By wayside graves are raised; 



THE CRY OF THE HUMAN, 8 1 

And lips say, " God be pitiful," 

Who ne'er said, " God be praised." 
Be pitiful, O God! • 

II. 

The tempest stretches from the steep 

The shadow of its coming ; 
The beasts grow tame, and near us creep, 

As help were in the human : 
Yet, while the cloud-wheels roll and grind, 

We spirits tremble under — 
The hills have echoes; but we find 

No answer for the thunder. 

Be pitiful, O God ! 

III. 

The battle hurtles on the plains, 

Earth feels new scythes upon her ; 
We reap our brothers for the wains,^ 

And call the harvest — honor: 
Draw face to face, front line to line, 

One image all inherit. 
Then kill, curse on, by that same sign, 

Clay — clay, and spirit — spirit. 

Be pitiful, O God! 

IV. 

The plague runs festering through the town, 

And never a bell is tolling, 
And corpses, jostled 'neath the moon. 

Nod to the dead-cart's rolling; 
6 



82 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING, 

The young child calleth for the cup, 
The strong man brings it weeping; 

The mother from her babe looks up, 
And shrieks away its sleeping. 
Be pitiful, O God ! 



The plague of gold strikes far and near, 

And deep and strong it enters ; 
This purple chimar^ which we wear, 

Makes madder than the centaur's :* 
Our thoughts grow blank, our words grow 
strange, 

We cheer the pale gold-diggers ; 
Kach soul is worth so much on 'Change, 

And marked, like sheep, with figures. 
Be pitiful, O God! 



VI. 

The curse of gold upon the land 

The lack of bread enforces ; 
The rail-cars snort from strand to strand, 

I^ike more of Death's white horses ; 
The rich preach "rights" and "future days," 

And hear no angel scoffing; 
The poor die mute, with starving gaze 

On corn-ships in the offing. 

Be pitiful, O God ! 



THE CRY OF THE HUMAN, 83 

VII. 
We meet together at the feast, 

To private mirth betake us ; 
We stare down in the wine-cup, lest 

Some vacant chair should shake us ; 
We name delight, and pledge it round — 

"It shall be ours to-morrow!" 
God's seraphs, do your voices sound 

As sad in naming sorrow? 

Be pitiful, O God! 

VIII. 

We sit together, with the skies. 

The steadfast skies, above us. 
We look into each other's eyes, 

"And how long will you love us?" 
The eyes grow dim with prophecy, 

The voices, low and breathless, — 
" Till death us part !" O words, to be 

Our best^ for love the deathless ! 
Be pitiful, O God ! 

IX. 

We tremble by the harmless bed 

Of one loved and departed ; 
Our tears drop on the lips that said 

I^ast night, "Be stronger-hearted!" 
O God, to clasp those fingers close, 

And yet to feel so lonely! 
To see a light upon such brows. 

Which is the daylight owXyX 

Be pitiful, O God! 



84 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 

X. 

The happy children come to us, 

And look up in our faces ; 
They ask us, "Was it thus, and thus, 

When we were in their places?" 
We can not speak ; we see anew 

The hills we used to live in, 
And feel our mother's smile press through 

The kisses she is giving. 

Be pitiful, O God ! 

XI. 

We pray together at the kirk 

For mercy, mercy solely: 
Hands weary with the evil work, 

We lift them to the Holy. 
The corpse is calm below our knee, 

Its spirit bright before Thee : 
Between them, worse than either, we, 

Without the rest or glory. 

Be pitiful, O God! 

XII. 

We leave the communing of men, 

The murmur of the passions. 
And live alone, to live again 

With endless generations : 
Are we so brave ? The sea and sky 

In silence lift their mirrors, 
And, glassed^ therein, our spirits high 

Recoil from their own terrors. 

Be pitiful, O God! 



THE CRY OF THE HUMAN. 85 

XIII. 

We vSit on hills our childhood wist,^ 

Woods, hamlets, streams beholding : 
The sun strikes through the farthest mist 

The city's spire to golden : 
The city's golden spire it was 

When hope and health were strongest; 
But now it is the churchyard grass 

We look upon the longest. 

Be pitiful, O God! 

XIV. 

And vSoon all vision waxeth dull. 

Men whisper, " He is dying:" 
We cry no more, "Be pitiful!" 

We have no strength for crying — 
No strength, no need. Then, soul of mine, 

Look up, and triumph rather : 
Lo, in the depth of God's divine 

The Son adjures the Father, 

Be; pitiful, O God! 



86 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 



COWPER'S GRAVE. 

Wii,i,iAM CowPER (1731-18CXD), the sweet singer of 01- 
ney, and a writer of eminent gifts, showed early a tendency 
to melancholy, which, at times, culminated in an utter loss 
of reason. He died at Bast Denham, Norfolk, and it is at 
his grave that Mrs. Browning sees this vision of his rapture. 

I. 
It is a place where poets crowned may feel the 

heart's decaying; 
It is a place where happy saints may weep amid 

their praying : 
Yet let the grief and humbleness as low as silence 

languish : 
Earth surely now may give her calm to whom she 

gave her anguish. 

II. 

O poets, from a maniac's tongue was poured the 

deathless singing ! 
O Christians, at your cross of hope a hopeless hand 

was clinging ! 
O men, this man in brotherhood your weary paths 

beguiling, 
Groaned inly while he taught you peace, and died 

while ye were smiling ! 

III. 

And now, what time ye all may read through dim- 
ming tears his story, 

How discord on the music fell, and darkness on the 
glory, 



cowper's grave. ^'J 

And how when, one by one, sweet sounds and wan- 
dering Hghts departed, 

He wore no less a loving face because so broken- 
hearted, 

IV. 

He shall be strong to sanctify the poet's high vocation, 
And bow the meekest Christian down in meeker 

adoration ; 
Nor ever shall he be, in praise, by wise or good 

forsaken. 
Named softly as the household name of one whom 

God hath taken. 

V. 

With quiet sadness and no gloom I learn to think 

upon him. 
With meekness that is gratefulness to God whose 

heaven hath won him, 
Who suffered once the madness-cloud to his own 

love to blind him ; 
But gently led the blind along where breath and 

bird could find him, 

VI. 

And wrought within his shattered brain such quick 

poetic senses 
As hills have language for, and stars, harmonious 

influences : 
The pulse of dew upon the grass kept his within its 

number, 
And silent shadows from the trees refreshed him 

like a slumber. 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 



VII. 

Wild, timid hares^ were drawn from woods to share 
his home-caresses, 

Uplooking to his human eyes with sylvan tender- 
nesses : 

The very world, by God's constraint, from false- 
hood's ways removing, 

Its women and its men became, beside him, true 
and loving. 

VIII. 

And though, in blindness, he remained unconscious 
of that guiding. 

And things provided came without the sweet sense 
of providing,^ 

He testified this solemn truth, while frenzy deso- 
lated, — 

Nor man nor nature satisfies whom only God cre- 
ated.^ , 

IX. 

Like a sick child that knoweth not his mother while 

she blesses, 
And drops upon his burning brow the coolness 

of her kisses ; 
That turns his fevered eyes around — " My mother? 

where 's my mother?" 
As if such tender words and deeds could come from 

any other ! — 



COWPER'S GRAVE. 89 

X. 

The fever gone, with leaps of heart he sees her 

bending o'er him, 
Her face all pale from watchful love, — the unweary 

love she bore him ! — 
Thus woke the poet from the dream his life's long 

fever gave him, 
Beneath those deep pathetic Eyes which closed in 

death to save him. 

XI. 

Thus ? O not thus I no type of earth can image 

that awaking 
Wherein he scarcely heard the chant of seraphs 

round him breaking, 
Or felt the new immortal throb of soul from body 

parted, 
But felt those eyes alone, and knew, — ''My Savior ! 

not deserted !" 

XII. 

Deserted ! Who hath dreamt that when the cross 
in darkness rested, 

Upon the Victim's hidden face no love was mani- 
fested? 

What frantic hands outstretched have e'er the aton- 
ing drops averted ? 

What tears have washed them from the soul, that 
07ie should be deserted? 



90 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 

XIII. 

Deserted! God could separate from his own es- 
sence rather; 

And Adam's sins have swept between the righteous 
Son and Father : 

Yea, once Immanuel's orphaned cry his universe 
hath shaken — 

It went up single, echoless, " My God, I am for- 
saken!"* 

XIV. 

It went up from the Holy's lips amid his lost crea- 
tion, 

That of the lost no son should use those words of 
desolation ; 

That earth's worst frenzies, marring hope, should 
mar not hope's fruition ; 

And I, on Cowper's grave, should see his rapture 
in a vision. 

WORK. 

What are we set on earth for ? Say, to toil ; 

Nor seek to leave thy tending of the vines 

For all the heat o' the day, till it declines. 

And death's mild curfew shall from work assoil.-^ 

God did anoint thee with his odorous oil. 

To wrestle, not to reign ; and he assigns 

All thy tears over, like pure crystallines, 

For younger fellow-workers of the soil 

To wear for amulets. So others shall 

Take patience, labor, to their heart and hand, 



FUTURITY. 91 

From thy hand and thy heart and thy brave cheer, 
And God's grace fructify through thee to all. 
The least flower, with a brimming cup, may stand 
And share its dewdrop with another near. 

SUBSTITUTION. 

Whkn some beloved voice, that was to you 
Both sound and sweetness, faileth suddenly, 
And silence, against which you dare not cry. 
Aches round you like a strong disease and new, 
What hope, what help, what music will undo 
That silence to your sense ? Not friendship's sigh ; 
Not reason's subtle count ; not melody 
Of viols, nor of pipes that Faunus blew '} 
Not songs of poets, nor of nightingales 
Whose hearts leap upward through the cypress-trees 
To the clear moon ; nor yet the spheric laws^ 
Self-chanted, nor the angels' sweet All-hails, 
Met in the smile of God : nay, none of these. 
Speak THOU, availing Christ ! and fill this pause. 

FUTURITY. 

And O beloved voices, upon which 

Ours passionately call, because erelong 

Ye brake off in the middle of that song 

We sang together softly, to enrich 

The poor world with the sense of love, and witch^ 

The heart out of things evil, — I am strong. 

Knowing ye are not lost for aye among 

The hills with last year's thrush. God keeps a niche 



92 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 

In heaven to hold our idols ; and albeit 
He brake them to our faces, and denied 
That our close kisses should impair their white, 
I know we shall behold them raised, complete, 
The dust swept from their beauty, — glorified 
New Memnons^ singing in the great God-light. 

THE LOOK. 

ThK Savior looked on Peter.^ Ay, no word. 
No gesture of reproach : the heavens serene, 
Though heavy with armed justice, did not lean 
Their thunders that way : the forsaken Lord 
Looked only on the traitor. None record 
What that look was, none guess; for those who have 

seen 
Wronged lovers loving through a death-pang keen, 
Or pale-cheeked martyrs smiling to a sword, 
Have missed Jehovah at the judgment-call. 
And Peter, from the height of blasphemy, — 
"I never knew this Man !" — did quail and fall 
As knowing straight that God, and turned free 
And went out speechless from the face of all, 
And filled the silence, weeping bitterly. 

THE MEANING OF THE LOOK. 

I THINK that look of Christ might seem to say : 
*'Thou Peter! art thou, then, a common stone^ 
Which I at last must break my heart upon, 
For all God's charge to his high angels may 
Guard my foot better V- Did I yesterday 



WORK AND CONTEMPLATION. 93 

Wash thy feet,^ my beloved, that they should run 
Quick to deny me 'neath the morning sun ? 
And do thy kisses, like the rest, betray ? 
The cock crows coldly. Go, and manifest 
A late contrition, but no bootless fear ; 
For, when thy final need is dreariest, 
Thou shalt not be denied, as I am here : 
My voice to God and angels shall attest, 
Because I know this raan, let hhn be clear P'^ 

WORK AND CONTEMPLATION. 

The woman singeth at her spinning-wheel 

A pleasant chant, ballad, or barcarole;^ 

She thinketh of her song, upon the whole, 

Far more than of her flax ; and yet the reel 

Is full, and artfully her fingers feel 

With quick adjustment, provident control, 

The lines, too subtly twisted to unroll. 

Out to a perfect thread. I hence appeal 

To the dear Christian Church, that we may do 

Our Father's business in these temples mirk,^ 

Thus swift and steadfast, thus intent and strong; 

While thus, apart from toil, our souls pursue 

Some high, calm, spheric tune, and prove our work 

The better for the sweetness of our song. 







'% 


•*! 


-J; 


:p^ 


%• 




% 


^ 


^ 


$^ 


i 


1 


_ 


% 


^m 


Ji 


! 


UjKgjm 



/t{riju(Ai4- /hzmc^^m^ 



ROBERT BROWNING 



Aft was given for that; 
God uses us to help each other so, 
Lending our minds out. ♦ . . 

This world ^s no blot for us, 
Nor blank; it means intensely, and means good; 
To find its meaning is my meat and drink. 

— Fra Lippo Lippi. 
96 



ROBERT BROWNING. 

(1812-1889.) 

In reach of intellect, range of s^^mpathy, and in 
the proper understanding of human character, Robert 
Browning is to be mated by Shakespeare onl}- of all the 
English poets. To be a poet, and in his poetry to be the 
very voice of God to his generation, was Browning's ear- 
liest and last thought about his work. It is doubtful if 
any professional theologian of this century has di- 
vined more fully or perfectly the problems and difficul- 
ties of modern doubt, or made so large and important 
contributions to their rational and satisfactory solution. 
The Christianity of Christ has had no more powerful 
defense or exposition than that given by Browning in 
his poetry. Browning was born in Camberwell, near 
lyondon, May 7, 1812; his famil}^ had some means, and 
the boy was trained with special reference to his voca- 
tion as a poet. His "Pauline" appeared in 1832, and 
attracted almost no attention ; three years later " Para- 
celsus" appeared; but not until the series of pla3-s and 
poems known as "Bells and Pomegranates" appeared 
(1841-1846) was his fame established. In 1846 he mar- 
ried Miss Barrett, and with her went to Italy to live. 
After her death in 1861 Mr. Browning lived in London. 
In 1889, during a sojourn in Italy, he died at Venice, 
December 12th. 

Works. Best edition in seven volumes, Houghton, 
MifQin & Co. ; also in one volume, same publishers. 

lyiFE:. Robert Browning : Life and Letters, by Mrs. 
Sutherland Orr; also. Life of Browning, by William 
Sharp. 

Introduction. See Introductions by Hiram Corson 
and William John Alexander ; and Hand-Book, by Mrs. 
Sutherland Orr. 

97 

7 



98 ROBERT BROWNING. 



AN EPISTLE, 

CONTAINING THE STRANGE MEDICAL EXPERIENCE OF 
KHARSHISH, THE ARAB PHYSICIAN. 

Kharshish is an Arab physician traveling in Syria to 
extend bis knowledge of tbings pertaining to bis profes- 
sion. Whatever be picks up likely to be of interest be 
communicates to his teacher at home, Abib. In his jour- 
neying he comes to Bethany, and meets the case of Lazarus, 
who was raised from the dead by Christ. Kharshish bears 
the story, and is impressed by it. When he comes to write 
about it, the wonder and even preposterousness of the case 
begin to be felt. How could he write such a story to 
Abib ? His master would think him demented. Neverthe- 
less, he is fascinated by it, and he records it, though not 
without apologies, and a tone of affected indifference, both 
of which, however, are swept away in the splendid utter- 
ance at the close. Having described his journey, his at- 
tendant, and some of his discoveries, Kharshish comes to 
the center of his theme and interest, as follows: 

I half resolve to tell thee, yet I blush, 
What set me off a-writing first of all. 
An itch I had, a sting to write, a tang ! 
For, be it this town's barrenness^ — or else 
The Man had something in the look of him, — 
His case has struck me far more than 't is worth. 
So, pardon if — (lest presently I lose 
In the great press of novelty at hand 
The care and pains this somehow stole from me) 
I bid thee take the thing while fresh in mind, 
Almost in sight — for, wilt thou have the truth ? 
The very man is gone from me but now, 



AN EPISTLE. 99 

Whose ailment is the subject of discourse. 
Thus then, and let thy better wit help all ! 
'T is but a case of mania — subinduced 
By epilepsy, at the turning-point 
Of trance prolonged unduly some three da3's : 
When, by the exhibition''^ of some drug 
Or spell, exorcization, stroke of art 
Unknown to me, and which 't were well to know, 
The evil thing out-breaking all at once 
Left the man whole and sound of body indeed, 
But, flinging (so to speak) life's gates too wide, 
Making a clear house of it too suddenly, 
The first conceit that entered might inscribe 
Whatever it was minded on the wall 
So plainly at that vantage, as it were, 
(First come, first served,) that nothing subsequent 
Attaineth to erase those fancy-scrawls 
The just-returned and new-established soul 
Hath gotten now so thoroughly by heart 
That henceforth she will read or these or none. 
And first — the man's own firm conviction rests 
That he was dead (in fact they buried him), 
That he was dead and then restored to life 
By a Nazarene physician of his tribe : 
'Sayeth, the same bade "Rise," and he did rise. 
*' Such cases are diurnal," thou wilt cry. 
Not so this figment !^ — not, that such a fume, 
Instead of giving way to time and health. 
Should eat itself into the life of life, 
As saffron tingeth flesh, blood, bones, and all ! 
For see, how he takes up the after-life. 



lOO ROBERT BROWNING. 

The man — it is one lyazarus a Jew, 

Sanguine, proportioned, fifty yeans of age, 

The body's habit wholly laudable, 

As much, indeed, beyond the common health 

As he were made and put aside to show. 

Think, could we penetrate by any drug 

And bathe the wearied soul and worried flesh, 

And bring it clear and fair, by three days' sleep ! 

Whence has the man the balm that brightens all? 

This grown man eyes the world now like a child. 

Some elders of his tribe, I vShould premise, 

lycd in their friend, obedient as a sheep. 

To bear my inquisition. While they spoke^ 

Now sharply, now with sorrow, — told the case, — 

He listened not except I spoke to him, 

But folded his two hands and let them talk, 

Watching the flies that buzzed : and yet no fool. 

And that 's a sample how his years must go. 

Look if a beggar, in fixed middle-life,^ 

Should find a treasure, — can he use the same 

With straitened habits and with tastes starved small. 

And take at once to his impoverished brain 

The sudden element that changes things. 

That sets the undreamed-of rapture at his hand, 

And puts the cheap old joy in the scorned dust? 

Is he not such an one as moves to mirth — 

Warily parsimonious, when no need. 

Wasteful as drunkenness at undue times ? 

All prudent counsel as to what befits 

The golden mean, is lost on such an one: 

The man's fantastic will is the man's law. 



AN EPISTLE, lOI 

So here — we call the treasure knowledge, say, 

Increased beyond the fleshly faculty— 

Heaven opened to a soul while yet on earth, 

Earth forced on a soul's use while seeing heaven: 

The man is witless of the size, the sum. 

The value in proportion of all things, 

Or whether it be little or be much. 

Discourse to him of prodigious armaments 

Assembled to besiege his city now, 

And of the passing of a mule with gourds — 

'T is one ! Then take it on the other side. 

Speak of some trifling fact, — he will gaze rapt 

With stupor at its very littleness, 

(Far as I see), as if in that indeed 

He caught prodigious import, whole results ; 

And so will turn to us, the bystanders. 

In ever the same stupor (note this point). 

That we, too, see not with his opened eyes. 

Wonder and doubt come wrongly into play. 

Preposterously, at cross purposes. 

Should his child sicken unto death, — why, look 

For vScarce abatement of his cheerfulness. 

Or pretermission of the daily craft ! 

While a word, gesture, glance from that same child 

At play, or in the school, or laid asleep. 

Will startle him to an agony of fear. 

Exasperation, just as like. Demand 

The reason why — "^tis but a word," object — 

*'A gesture"^ — he regards thee as our lord 

Who lived there in the pyramid alone. 

Looked at us (dost thou mind?) when, being young, 



I02 ROBERT BROWNING, 

We both would unadvisedly recite 

Some charm's beginning, from that book of his, 

Able to bid the sun throb wide and burst 

All into stars, as suns grown old are wont. 

Thou and the child have^ each a veil alike 

Thrown o'er your heads, from under which ye both 

Stretch your blind hands and trifle with a match 

Over a mine of Greek fire," did ye know! 

He holds on firmly to some thread of life — 

(It is the life to lead perforcedly) 

Which runs^ across some vast distracting orb 

Of glory on either side that meager thread, 

Which, conscious of, he must not enter yet — 

The spiritual life around the earthly life : 

The law of that is known to him as this, 

His heart and brain move there, his feet stay here. 

So is the man perplext with impulses 

Sudden to start off crosswise, not straight on, 

Proclaiming what is right and wrong across, 

And not along, this black thread through the blaze — 

*' It should be " balked by '' here it can not be." 

And oft the man's soul springs into his face 

As if he saw again and heard again 

His sage that bade him ** Rise," and he did rise. 

Something, a word, a tick o' the blood within 

Admonishes : then back he sinks at once 

To ashes, who was very fire before. 

In sedulous recurrence to his trade 

Whereby he earneth him the daily bread ; 

And studiously the humbler for that pride. 

Professedly the faultier that he knows 



AN EPISTLE. 103 

God's secret, while he holds the thread of life. 

Indeed the special marking of the man 

Is prone submission to the heavenly will — 

Seeing it, what it is, and why it is. 

'Sayeth, he will wait patient to the last 

For that same death which must restore his being 

To equilibrium, body loosening soul 

Divorced even now by premature full growth : 

He will live, nay, it pleaseth him to live 

So long as God please, and just how God please. 

He even seeketh not to please God more 

(Which meaneth, otherwise) than as God please. 

Hence, I perceive not he affects to preach 

The doctrine of his sect whate'er it be. 

Make proselytes as madmen thirst to do : 

How can he give his neighbor the real ground. 

His own conviction? Ardent as he is — 

Call his great truth a lie, why, still the old 

'' Be it as God please " reassureth him. 

I probed the sore as thy disciple should : 

" How, beast," said I, " this stolid carelessness 

Sufficeth thee, when Rome^ is on her march 

To stamp out like a little spark thy town, 

Thy tribe, thy crazy tale and thee at once?" 

He merely looked with his large eyes on me. 

The man is apathetic, you deduce ? 

Contrariwise, he loves both old and young, 

Able and weak, affects the very brutes 

And birds — how say I? flowers of the field — 

As a wise workman recognizes tools 

In a master's workshop, loving what they make. 



I04 ROBERT BROWNING. 

Thus is the man as harmless as a lamb : 

Only impatient, let him do his best, 

At ignorance and carelessness and sin — 

An indignation which is promptly curbed: 

As when in certain travel I have feigned 

To be an ignoramus in our art 

According to some preconceived design, 

And happened to hear the land's practitioners 

Steep in conceit sublimed by ignorance. 

Prattle fantastically on disease. 

Its cause and cure — and I must hold my peace ! 

Thou wilt object, — Why have I not ere this 
Sought out the sage himself, the Nazarene 
Who wrought this cure, inquiring at the source, 
Conferring with the frankness that befits? 
Alas ! it grieveth me, the learned leech 
Perished in a tumult many years ago, 
Accused — our learning's fate — of wizardry, 
Rebellion, to the setting up a rule 
And creed prodigious, as described to me. 
His death, which happened when the earthquake fell 
(Prefiguring, as soon appeared, the loss 
To occult learning in our lord, the sage, 
Who lived there in the pyramid alone), 
Was wrought by the mad people — that 's their wont! 
On vain recourse, as I conjecture it. 
To his tried virtue, for miraculous help — 
How could he stop the earthquake ? That 's their 

w^ay ! 
The other imputations must be lies : 



AN EPISTLE. 105 

But take one, though I loath to give it thee, 

In mere respect for any good man's fame. 

(And after all, our patient Lazarus 

Is stark mad ; should we count on what he says ? 

Perhaps not : though, in writing to a leech, 

'T is well to keep back nothing of a case.) 

This man so cured regards the curer, then, 

As — God forgive me ! — who but God himself, 

Creator and sustainer of the world, 

That came and dwelt in flesh on it awhile ! — 

'Sayeth that such an one was born and lived, 

Taught, healed the sick, broke bread at his own 

house. 
Then died, with Lazarus by, for aught I know, 
And yet was . . . what I said nor choose repeat, 
And must have so avouched himself, in fact, 
In hearing of this very Lazarus, 
Who saith — but why all this of what he saith ? 
Wh}^ write of trivial matters, things of price 
Calling at every moment for remark? 
I noticed on the margin of a pool 
Blue-flowering borage, the Aleppo sort,^ 
Aboundeth, very nitrous. It is strange ! 

Thy pardon for this long and tedious case, 
Which, now that I review it, needs must seem 
Unduly dwelt on, prolixly set forth ! 
Nor I myself discern in what is writ 
Good cause for the peculiar interest 
And awe, indeed, this man has touched me with. 
Perhaps the journey's end, the weariness, 



Io6 ROBERT BROWNING. 

Had wrought upon me first. I met him thus :^^ 

I crossed a ridge of short sharp broken hills, 

lyike an old lion's cheek-teeth. Out there came 

A moon made like a face with certain spots 

Multiform, manifold, and menacing: 

Then a wind rose behind me. So we met 

In this old sleepy town at unaware, 

The man and I. I send thee what is writ. 

Regard it as a chance, a matter risked 

To this ambiguous Syrian^^ — he may lose, 

Or steal, or give it thee with equal good. 

Jerusalem's repose shall make amends^^ 

For time this letter wastes, thy time and mine ; 

Till when, once more thy pardon, and farewell! 

The very God I^^ think, Abib ; dost thou think? 
So, the All-Great, were the All-Loving too — 
So, through the thunder comes a human voice. 
Saying: "O heart I made, a heart beats here! 
Face, my hands fashioned, see it in myself! 
Thou hast no power, nor may'st conceive of mine : 
But love I gave thee, with myself to love, 
And thou must love me who have died for thee !" 
The madman saith He said so : it is strange. 



SAUL. 107 



SAUL. 

The incident upon which this poem is built is recorded 
in I Samuel xvi, 14-23. Saul, the inaugurator of the Jewish 
monarchy, is troubled with an evil spirit. David, the min- 
strel, is sent for to charm him by music, and it is David 
himself who describes the interview and the result. Saul 
is in his tent, with arms outstretched against its poles, 
dumb, sightless, and stark; he is in utter darkness, material 
as well as spiritual. David tells how he sought to move 
the king with songs of the field, the songs which charmed 
the sheep, the quail, the crickets, and jerboa; then how he 
passed on to the more stirring songs of social and religious 
life, the song of the reapers, the requiem, the marriage 
chorus, the battle march, and the chant of the priests. At 
this point Saul appears to be slightly moved as the gleam 
of the jewels in his turban attests. Again David sings; this 
time of the goodness of human life, of labor and success, 
and of Saul's own glory in securing recognition as the head 
of a great nation. This still further arouses Saul. Then 
David, striking a higher key, carries the events of this life 
into the life beyond, and the glory of Saul's generation to 
succeeding generations, and Saul becomes himself again. 
The tenderness of David's love for the suffering king leads 
him still further; he yearns to give him a new life now, 
which will be everlasting; his desire becomes a prophecy, 
and his prophecy a vision of Christ, who shall throw open 
to Saul the gates of that new life. His ministry ended, 
David seeks his own home, attended, as he declares, by co- 
horts on every hand. A Hand guides him in the tumult of 
expectation with which earth is thrilling; the rapture of 
his ecstasy subsides, and day dawns upon an order of things 
which this vision of Christ has transfigured. 

Our selection begins where David seeks to move Saul 
by a song of the immortality of endeavor^ and the beati- 
tude of mere livin«-. 



Io8 ROBERT BROWNING. 

XI. 

What spell or what charm, 
(For, awhile there was trouble within me), what 

next should I urge 
To sustain him where song had restored him? — 

Song filled to the verge 
His cup with the wine of this life, pressing all that 

it yields 
Of mere fruitage, the strength and the beauty : be- 
yond, on what fields. 
Glean a vintage more potent and perfect to brighten 

the eye 
And bring blood to the lip, and commend them the 

cup they put by? 
He saith, "It is good;" still he drinks not: he lets 

me praise life, 
Gives assent, yet would die for his own part. 

XII. 

Then fancies grew rife 
Which had come long ago on the pasture, when 

round me the sheep * 

Fed in silence — above, the one eagle wheeled slow, 

as in sleep ; 
And I lay in my hollow and mused on the world 

that might lie 
'Neath his ken, though I saw but the strip 'twixt the 

hill and the sky : 
And I laughed — " Since my days are ordained to be 

passed with my flocks, 
Let me people at least, with my fancies, the plains 

and the rocks, 



SAUL. 109 

Dream the life I am never to mix with, and image 

the show 
Of mankind as they live in those fashions I hardly 

shall know ! 
Schemes of life, its best rules and right uses, the 

courage that gains, 
And the prudence that keeps what men strive for." 

And now these old trains 
Of vague thought came again ; I grew surer ; so, 

once more the string 
Of my harp made response to my spirit, as thus — 

XIII. 

"Yea, my King," 
I began — " thou dost well in rejecting mere com- 
forts that spring 
From the mere mortal life held in common by man 

and by brute : 
In our flesh grows the branch of this life, in our 

soul it bears fruit. 
Thou hast marked the slow rise of the tree, — how 

its stem trembled first 
Till it passed the kid's lip, the stag's antler; then 

safely outburst 
The fan-branches all round ; and thou mindest 

when these too, in turn 
Broke abloom and the palm-tree seemed perfect: 

yet more was to learn, 
K'en the good that comes in w^ith the palm-fruit. 

Our dates shall we slight, 
When their juice brings a cure for all sorrow? or 

care for the plight 



no ROBERT BROWNING. 

Of the palm's self whose slow growth produced 

them ? Not so ! stem and branch 
Shall decay, nor be known in their place, while 

the palm-wine shall stanch 
Every wound of man's spirit in winter. I pour 

thee such wine, 
lycave the flesh to the fate it was fit for ! the spirit 

be thine ! 
By the spirit when age shall o'ercome thee, thou 

still shalt enjoy 
More indeed,^ than at first when, inconscious, the 

life of a boy. 
Crush that life, and behold its wine running ! 

Bach deed thou hast done 
Dies, revives, goes to work in the world; until e'en 

as the sun 
lyooking down on the earth, though clouds spoil 

him, though tempests efface. 
Can find nothing his own deed produced not, must 

everywhere trace 
The results of his past summer-prime, — so, each 

ray of thy will, 
Every flash of thy passion and prowess, long over, 

shall thrill 
Thy whole people the countless, with ardor, till 

they too give forth 
A like cheer to their sons, who in turn, fill the 

South and the North 
With the radiance thy deed was the germ of Ca- 
rouse in the past! 
But the license of age has its limit : thou diest at last : 



SAUL. Ill 

As the lion when age dims his eyeball, the rose at 

her height, 
So with man — so his power and his beauty forever 

take flight. 
No ! Again a long draught of my soul-wine ! 

lyook forth o'er the years ! 
Thou hast done now with e3^es for the actual ; 

begin with the seer's ! 
Is Saul dead? In the depth of the vale make his 

tomb — bid arise, 
A gray mountain of marble heaped four-square, 

till, built to the skies, 
L<et it mark where the great First King slumbers: 

whose fame would }'e know? 
Up above see the rock's naked face, where the rec^ 

ord shall go 
In great characters cut b}^ the scribe, — Such was 

Saul, so he did ; 
With the sages directing the work, by the popu- 
lace chid, — 
For not half, the}- '11 affirm, is comprised there ! 

Which fault to amend. 
In the grove with his kind grows the cedar, 

whereon they shall spend 
(See, in tablets 't is level before them) their praise, 

and record 
With the gold of the graver, Saul's story, — the 

statesman's great word 
Side by side with the poet's sweet comment. The 

river's awave 
With smooth paper-reeds grazing each other when 

prophet-winds rave: 



112 ROBERT BROWNING, 

So the pen gives unborn generations their due and 

their part 
In thy being! Then, first of the mighty, thank 

God that thou art!" 

XIV. 

And behold while I sang . . . but O Thou who 

didst grant me, that day,^ 
And before it not seldom hast granted thy help 

to essay, 
Carry on and complete an adventure, — my shield 

and my sword 
In that act where my soul was thy servant, thy word 

was my word, — 
Still be with me, who then at the summit of hu- 
man endeavor 
And scaling the highest, man's thought could, 

gazed hopeless as ever 
On the new stretch of heaven above me — till, 

mighty to save, 
Just one lift of thy hand cleared that distance — 

God's throne from man's grave ! 
L<et me tell out my tale to its ending — my voice to 

my heart^ 
Which can scarce dare believe in what marvels last 

night I took part. 
As this morning I gather the fragments, alone with. 

my sheep, 
And still fear lest the terrible glory evanish like 

sleep I 
For I wake in the gray dewy covert, while Hebron 

upheaves 



SAUL. 113 

The dawn struggling with night on his shoulder, 

and Kidron retrieves 
Slow the damage of yesterda\''s sunshine. 

XV. 

I say then, — my song 
While I sang thus, assuring the monarch, and, ever 

more strong, 
Made a proffer of good to console him — he slowly 

resumed 
His old motions and habitudes kingly. The right 

hand replumed 
His black locks to their wonted composure, ad- 
justed the swathes 
Of his turban, and see — the huge sweat that his 

countenance bathes, 
He wipes off with the robe ; and he girds now his 

loins as of yore, 
And feels slow for the armlets^ of price, with the 

clasp set before. 
He is Saul, y^ remember in glory, — ere error had 

bent 
The broad brow from the daily communion ; and 

still, though much spent 
Be the life and the bearing that front 3^ou, the same, 

God did choose, 
To receive what a man may waste, desecrate, never 

quite lose. 
So sank he along by the tent-prop till, sta3'ed by 

the pile 
Of his armor and war-cloak and garments, he 

leaned there a while, 
8 



114 ROBERT BROWNING. 

And sat out my singing, — one arm round the tent- 
prop, to raise 

His bent head, and the other hung slack — till I 
touched on the praise 

I foresaw from all men in all time, to the man pa- 
tient there ; 

And thus ended, the harp falling forward. Then 
first I was 'ware 

That he sat, as I say, with my head just above his 
vast knees 

Which were thrust out on each side around me, like 
oak-roots which please 

To encircle a lamb when it slumbers. I looked 
up to know 

If the best I could do had brought solace : he spoke 
not, but slow 

I^ifted up the hand slack at his side, till he laid it 
with care 

Soft and grave, but in mild settled will, on my 
brow: through my hair 

The large fingers were pushed, and he bent back 
my head, with kind power — 

All my face back, intent to peruse it, as men do a 
flower. 

Thus held he me there with his great eyes that 
scrutinized mine — 

And O, all my heart how it loved him !^ but where 
was the sign? 

I yearned — "Could I help thee, my father, invent- 
ing a bliss, 

I would add, to that life of the past, both the future 
and this; 



SAUL. 115 

I would give thee new life altogether, as good ages 

hence 
As this moment, — had love but the warrant, love's 

heart to dispense!" 

XVI. 

Then the truth came upon me. No harp more — 
no song more ! outbroke — 

XVII. 

" I have gone the whole round of creation : I saw 
and I spoke i*^ 

I, a work of God's hand for that purpose, received 
in my brain 

And pronounced on the rest of his handwork — re- 
turned him again 

His creation's approval or censure : I spoke as I 
saw : 

I report, as a man ma}' of God's work — all \s love, 
yet all 's law. 

Now I lay down the judgeship he lent me. Each 
facult}^ tasked 

To perceive him, has gained an abyss, where a dew- 
drop was asked. 

Have I knowledge? confounded it vShrivels at Wis- 
dom laid bare. 

Have I forethought? how purblind, how blank, to 
the Infinite Care ! 

Do I task any faculty highest to image success ? 

I but open my e3^es, — and perfection, no more and 
no less, 



Il6 ROBERT BROWNING. 

In the kind I imagined, full-fronts me, and God is 

seen God 
In the vStar, in the stone, in the flesh, in the soul 

and the clod. 
And thus looking within and around me, I ever 

renew 
(With that stoop of the soul which in bending up- 
raises it too) 
The submission of man's nothing-perfect to God's 

all-complete, 
As by each new obeisance in spirit, I climb to his 

feet. 
Yet with all this abounding experience, this deity 

known, 
I shall dare to discover some province, some gift of 

my own. 
There 's a faculty pleasant to exercise, hard to 

hoodwink, 
I am fain to keep still in abeyance, (I laugh as I 

think) 
lyCSt, insisting to claim and parade in it, wot ye, I 

worst 
K'en the Giver in one gift. — Behold, I could love 

if I durst ! 
But I sin.k the pretension as fearing a man may 

o'ertake 
God's own speed in the one way of love: I ab- 
stain for love's sake. 
— What, my soul ? see thus far and no farther ? 

when doors great and small. 



SAUL. 117 

Nine and ninety flew ope at our touch, should the 

hundredth appall ? 
In the least things have faith, yet distrust in the 

greatest of all? 
Do I find love so full in my nature, God's ultimate 

gift, 
That I doubt his own love can compete with it? 

Here the parts shift? 
Here the creature surpass the creator, — the end, 

what began ? 
Would I fain in my impotent yearning do all for 

this man. 
And dare doubt he alone shall not help liim, who 

yet alone can? 
Would it ever have entered my mind, the bare will, 

much less power, 
To bestow on this Saul what I sang of, the marvel- 
ous dower 
Of the life he was gifted and filled with ? to make 

such a soul, 
Such a body, and then such an earth for insphering 

the whole? 
And doth it not enter my mind (as my warm tears 

attest) 
These good things being given, to go on, and give 

one more, the best? 
Ay, to save and redeem and restore him, maintain 

at the height 
This perfection, — succeed with life's dayspring, 

death's minute of night? 



Il8 ROBERT BROWNING. 

Interpose at the difficult minute, snatch Saul the 

mistake, 
Saul the failure, the ruin he seems now, — and bid 

him awake 
From the dream, the probation, the prelude, to find 

himself set 
Clear and safe in new light and new life, — a new 

harmony yet 
To be run, and continued, and ended — who knows? — 

or endure ! 
The man taught enough by life's dream, of the rest 

to make sure ; 
By the pain throb, triumphantly winning intensi- 
fied bliss. 
And the next world's reward and repose, by the 

struggles in this. 

XVIII. 

"I believe it! T is thou, God, that givest, 'tis I 

who receive; 
In the first is the last, in thy will is my power to 

believe. 
All 's one gift : thou canst grant it moreover, as 

prompt to my prayer 
As I breathe out this breath, as I open these arms 

to the air. 
From thy will stream the worlds, life and nature, 

thy dread Sabaoth : 
/will? — the mere atoms despise me! Wh}^ am I 

not loth 



SAUL. 119 

To look that, even that in the face too? Why is 

it I dare 
Think but lightly of such impuissance?' What 

stops my despair? 
This ; — 'tis not what man Does which exalts him, 

but w^hat man Would do ! 
See the King — I would help him, but can not, the 

wishes fall through. 
Could I wrestle to raise him from sorrow, grow 

poor to enrich, 
To fill up his life, starve my own out, I would — 

knowing which, 
I know that my servdce is perfect. O, speak through 

me now ! 
Would I suffer for him that I love? So wouldst 

thou — so wilt thou ! 
So shall crown thee the topmost, ineffablest, utter- 
most crown — 
And thy love fill infinitude wholl}-, nor leave up 

nor down 
One spot for the creature to stand in ! It is by no 

breath, 
Turn of eye, wave of hand, that salvation joins is- 
sue with death ! 
As th}^ Love is discovered almighty, almighty be 

proved 
Thy power, that exists with and for it, of being 

Beloved ! 
He who did most, shall bear most ; the strongest 

shall stand the most weak. 



I20 ROBERT BROWNING. 

'Tis the weakness in strength, that I cry for! my 

flesh, that I seek 
In the Godhead ! I seek and I find it. O Saul, it 

shall be 
A Face like my face that receives thee; a Man like 

to me, 
Thou shalt love and be loved by, forever: a Hand 

like this hand 
Shall throw open the gates of new life to thee ! See 

the Christ stand!" 

XIX. 

I know not too well how I found my way home in 

the night. 
There were witnesses, cohorts about me, to left and 

to right, 
Angels, powers, the unuttered, unseen, the alive, 

the aware : 
I repressed, I got through them as hardly, as strug- 

glingly there, 
As a runner beset by the populace famished for 

news — 
Life or death. The whole earth was awakened, hell 

loosed with her crews ; 
And the stars of night beat with emotion, and 

tingled and shot 
Out in fire the strong pain of pent knowledge : but 

I fainted not, 
For the Hand still impelled me at once and sup- 
ported, suppressed 



SAUL. 121 

All the tumult, and quenched it with quiet, and 
holy behest, 

Till the rapture was shut in itself, and the earth 
sank to rest. 

Anon at the dawn, all that trouble had withered 
from earth — 

Not so much, but I saw it die out in the day's ten- 
der birth ; 

In the gathered intensity brought to the gray of 
the hills ; 

In the shuddering forests' held breath ; in the sud- 
den wind-thrills; 

In the startled wild beasts that bore off, each with 
eye sidling still 

Though averted with wonder and dread; in the 
birds stiff and chill 

That rose heavily, as I approached them, made stupid 
with awe : 

B'en the serpent that slid away silent, — he felt the 
new law. 

The same stared in the white humid faces upturned 
by the flowers ; 

The same worked in the heart of the cedar and 
moved the vine-bowers : 

And the little brooks witnessing murmured, per- 
sistent and low. 

With their obstinate, all but hushed voices — " E'en 
so, it is so !" 



122 ROBERT BROWNING. 



RABBI BEN EZRA. 



This poem is a review of life from the standpoint of ma- 
tured experience. Rabbi Ben Ezra was a Jewish scholar, 
who attained ripe old age (1092-1187), and the meditation 
here ascribed to him would come with best grace and force 
from him in his later years. The thought is simple. The 
art of living has been learned only by that man who makes 
the perfection of character the great end of life. Such a 
life continues to grow better endlessly. To this end God 
has given us his creation, — our bodies, the worlds about us, 
all loveliness, all good, all enjoyment. Only when we make 
any of these an end instead of an instrument do we miss 
God's purpose and fail of life's true idea. God is the pot- 
ter, we the clay, and the changes of life the wheel with 
which God shapes us to the highest beauty of character. lyife 
and its changes may disappear, but God and the human 
soul endure forever. 

I. 

Grow old along with me ! 
The best is yet to be, 
The last of life, for which the first was made : 
Our times are in his hand 
Who saith, "A whole I planned. 
Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be 
afraid!" 

II. 

Not that,^ amassing flowers, 

Youth sighed, " Which rose make ours, 
Which lily leave and then as best recall?" 

Not that, admiring stars, 

It yearned, "Nor Jove, nor Mars; 
Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends 
them all!" 



RABBI BEN EZRA. 123 

III. 

Not for such hopes and fears 

Annulling youth's brief years, 
Do I remonstrate : foll}^ wide the mark ! 

Rather I prize the doubt^ 

L^ow kinds exist without, 
Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark. 

IV. 

Poor vaunt of life indeed, 

Were man but formed to feed 
On joy, to solely seek and find and feast ; 

Such feasting ended, then 

As sure an end to men ; 
Irks care^ the crop-full bird ? Frets doubt the maw- 
crammed beast? 

V. 

Rejoice we are allied 

To that which doth provide 
And not partake, effect and not receive ! 

A spark disturbs our clod ; 

Nearer we hold^ of God 
Who gives, than of his tribes that take, I must believe. 

VI. 
Then, welcome each rebuff 
That turns earth's smoothness rough, 
Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go ! 
Be our joys three-parts pain ! 
Strive, and hold cheap the strain ; 
Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge 
the throe ! 



124 ROBERT BROWNING. 

VII. 
For thence, — a paradox 
Whicli comforts while it mocks, — 
Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail : 
What I aspired to be, 
And was not, comforts me : 
A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' 
the scale. 

VIII. 

What is he but a brute 

Whose flesh hath soul to suit, 
Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play?^ 

To man, propose this test — 

Thy body at its best. 
How far can that project thy soul on its lone way ?^ 

IX. 

Yet gifts should prove their use •? 

I own the Past profuse 
Of power each side, perfection every turn : 

Eyes, ears took in their dole, 

Brain treasured up the whole ; 
Should not the heart beat once, "How good to live 
and learn?" 

X. 

Not once beat, " Praise be thine ! 

I see the whole design ; 
I, who saw power, see now L^ove perfect too : 

Perfect I call thy plan : 

Thanks that I was a man ! 
Maker, remake, complete, — I trust what thou 
Shalt do ! 



RABBI BEN EZRA. 1 25 

XI. 

" For pleasant is this flesh; 

Our soul, in its rose-mesh 
Pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for rest : 

Would we some prize might hold 

To match those manifold 
Possessions of the brute, — gain most, as we did 
best!" 

XII. 

Let us not always say, 
" Spite of this flesh, to-day 
I strove, made head, gained ground upon the 
whole !" 
As the bird wnngs and sings, 
- Let us cry, "All good things 
Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh 
helps soul !" 

XIII. 

Therefore I summon age 

To grant 3'outh's heritage, 
Life's struggle having so far reached its term : 

Thence shall I pass, approved^ 

A man, for aye removed 
From the developed brute ; a God, though in the 
germ. 

XIV. 

And I shall thereupon 
Take rest, ere I be gone 
Once more on my adventure brave and new : 



126 ROBERT BROWNING. 

Fearless and unperplexed, 
When I wage battle next, 
What weapons to select, what armor to indue.^ 

XV. 

Youth ended, I shall try 

My gain or loss thereby ; 
I^eave the fire-ashes, what survives is gold : 

And I shall weigh the same, 

Give life its praise or blame: 
Young, all lay in dispute; I shall know, being old.^^ 

XVI. 

For note, when evening shuts, 

A certain moment cuts 
The deed off, calls the glory from the gray : 

A whisper from the west 

Shoots— "Add this to the rest; 
Take it, and try its worth: here dies another day." 

XVII. 

So, still within this life, 

Though lifted o'er its strife, 
lyCt me discern, compare, pronounce at last : 

"This rage was right i' the main; 

That acquiescence vain : 
The Future I may face now I have proved the 
Past." 

XVIII. 

For more is not reserved 
To man, with soul just nerved 
To act to-morrow what he learns to-day: 



Jf 



RABBI BEN EZRA. 1 27 

Here, work enough to watch 
The Master work, and catch 
Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool's true 
play. 

XIX. 

As it was better, youth 

Should strive, through acts uncouth, 
Toward making, than repose on aught found made: 

So, better, age, exempt 

From strife, should know, than tempt 
Further. Thou waitedst age : wait death, nor be 
afraid ! 

XX. 

Enough now,^^ if the Right 

And Good and Infinite 
Be named here, as thou callest th}- hand thine own, 

With knowledge absolute, 

Subject to no dispute 
From fools that crowded youth, nor let thee feel 
alone. 

XXI. 

Be there, for once and all, 

Severed great minds from small, 
Announced to each his station in the Past ! 

Was I, the world arraigned,^^ 

Were they, my soul disdained, 
Right? Let age speak the truth and give us peace 
at last ! 



128 ROBERT BROWNING. 

XXII. 

Now, who shall arbitrate? 

Ten men love what I hate, 
Shun what I follow, slight what I receive; 

Ten, who in ears and eyes 

Match me : we all surmise : 
They, this thing, and I that : whom shall my soul 
believe? 

XXIII. 

Not on the vulgar mass 

Called "work," must sentence pass,^^ 
Things done, that took the eye and had the price; 

O'er which, from level stand, 

The low world laid its hand, 
Found straightway to its mind, could value in a 
trice : 

XXIV. 

But all, the world's coarse thumb 

And finger failed to plumb. 
So passed in making up the main account ; 

All instincts immature, 

All purposes unsure. 
That weighed not as his work, yet swelled the man's 
amount : 

XXV. 

Thoughts hardly to be packed 
Into a narrow act, 
Fancies that broke through language and escaped >* 



RABBI BEN EZRA. I 29 

All I could never be, 
All, men ignored in me. 
This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher 
shaped. 

XXVI. 

Ay, note that Potter's wheel,^^ 

That metaphor! and feel 
Why time spins fast, why passive lies our clay, — 

Thou to whom fools propound, 

When the wine makes its round, 
"Since life fleets, all is change; the Past gone, seize 
to-day !" 

XXVII. 

Fool ! All that is, at all, 

Lasts ever, past recall ; 
Karth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure: 

What entered into thee, 

That was, is, and shall be : 
Time's w^heel runs back or stops : Potter and clay 
endure. 

XXVIII. 

He fixed thee, mid this dance 

Of plastic circumstance, 
This Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst fain arrest : 

Machinery just meant 

To give thy soul its bent. 
Try thee, and turn thee forth sufficiently impressed. 

9 



I30 ROBERT BROWNING. 



XXIX. 



What though the earlier grooves^^ 

Which ran the laughing loves 
Around thy base, no longer pause and press ? 

What though, about thy rim, 

Skull-things in order grim 
Grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner stress? 

XXX. 

I^ook not thou down, but up ! 

To uses of a cup. 
The festal-board, lamp's flash, and trumpet's peal. 

The new wine's^^ foaming flow, 

The Master's lips aglow ! 
Thou, heaven's consummate cup, what needst thou 
with earth's wheel? 

XXXI. 

But I need, now as then, 

Thee, God, who moldest men; 
And since, not even while the whirl was worst, 

Did I — to the wheel of life. 

With shapes and colors rife. 
Bound dizzily — mistake my end, to slake thy thirst : 

XXXII. 

So, take and use thy work, 
Amend what flaws may lurk. 
What strain o' the stuff, what warpings past the 
aim ! 



CHRISTMAS EVE, 131 

My times be in thy hand ! 
Perfect the cup as planned ! 
I,et age approve of youth, and death complete the 
same ! 

CHRISTMAS EVE. 

The poem relates a succession of experiences by which 
the poet finds himself instructed as to the divine nature of 
Christ, and the character of the worship God most desires. 

First Experience. — Finding himself in the vicinity of 
a small Dissenting chapel, on a stormy Christmas eve, the 
poet seeks shelter in the building, where, from the ardent 
worshipers, he receives but scanty welcome. As the close 
of the poem indicates surprise at finding himself "bolt up- 
right on my bench, as if I had never left it," we ma}' im- 
agine the succeeding action of the poem to have taken 
place in a dream or vision. The room, the congregation, 
the preacher, the service, are all alike distasteful to him, and 
he flings himself out of the chapel into the storm. The 
largeness and freshness of nature are an inspiration; the 
heavens have a message for him ; they speak of God's 
power, and of power directed by love: 

In youth I looked to these very skies, 

And, probing their immensities, 

I found God there, his visible power ; 

Yet felt in my heart, amid all its sense 

Of the power, an equal evidence 

That his love, there too, was the nobler dower. 

For the loving worm within its clod 

Were diviner than a loveless God 

Amid his worlds, I will dare to say. 

God had made man : power and love are the attributes 
of man ; and power expressing itself in love is the only ade- 



132 ROBERT BROWNING. 

quate idea of the Infinite. This revelation assures him that 
that love in man which responds to God's love towards man 
is not to be ended or quenched by death : 

No : love which, on earth, amid all the shows of it, 
Has ever been seen the sole good of life in it. 
The love, ever growing there, spite of the strife in it, 
Shall arise, made perfect, from death's repose of it ! 
And I shall behold thee, face to face, 

God, and in thy light retrace 

How in all I loved here, still wast thou ! 
Whom, pressing to, then, as I fain would now, 

1 shall find as able to satiate 

The love, thy gift, as my spirit's wonder 

Thou art able to quicken and sublimate, 

With this sky of thine, that I now walk under. 

And glory in thee for, as I gaze 

Thus, thus ! O, let men keep their ways 

Of seeking thee in a narrow shrine — 

Be this my way ! And this is mine ! 

While in this exalted frame of mind, a natural wonder 
is displayed — a lunar rainbow — 

A glorious thing, that, dauntless, deathless, 

. . . vast and perfect, 
From heaven to heaven extending, perfect 
As the mother-moon's self, full in face. 

From the summit of this came an apparition in human 
form, with back turned upon the dreamer: 

I saw the back of Him, no more — 
No face: only the sight 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 1 33 

Of a sweepy garment vast and white 
With a hem that I could recognize. 

Something in the manner of this apparition suggested 
to the dreamer that offense had been taken at the latter's 
harsh judgment upon the chapel service which both had 
left together. To clear himself, the dreamer pleads that 
his heart was right even if his temper were wrong, and that 
his only thought was for a more perfect communion with 
Infinite Love than the chapel afforded. 

I thought it best that thou, the spirit, 
Be worshiped in spirit and in truth, 
And in beauty, as even we require it — 
Not in the forms burlesque, uncouth 
I left but now as scarcel}^ fitted 
For thee. 

And even, he adds, if such a thought were wrong: 

What is it to thee, who curest sinning ? 

Am I not weak as thou art strong? 

I have looked to thee from the beginning, 

And since the time thou wast descried 
Spite of the weak heart, so have I 
lyived ever, and so fain would die, 
Living and dying, Thee before ! 

The plea avails. The apparition turns full face upon 
the dreamer, and the beauty of forgiveness is exhibited un- 
der the following striking figure : 

And I spread myself beneath it, 

As when the bleacher spreads, to seethe it 



134 ROBERT BROWNING. 

In the cleansing sun, his wool, — 
Steeps in the flood of noontide whiteness 
Some defiled, discolored web — 
So lay I, saturate with brightness. 

This, then, is the first lesson of Christmas eve. These 
poor dissenting worshipers are friends of the Divine Being 
they worship, and it is an offense tq him for any one to de- 
spise these "little ones" of his. 

God who registers the cup 
Of mere cold water for his sake 
To a disciple rendered up, 
Disdains not his own thirst to slake 
At the poorest love was ever offered : 
And because my heart I proffered, 
With true love trembling at the brim. 
He suffers me to follow Him 
Forever, my own way. 

Second Experience. — The dream is now transferred 
to a scene of worship vastly different from that which he 
has just witnessed in the poor chapel of the Dissenters. 
The Spirit conveys him to Rome, and brings him to the 
door of the mighty basilica of St. Peter's. Though stand- 
ing without, the dreamer's eyes pierce the crust of the 
outer wall, and look upon a scene of unwonted splendor. 
At the sound of a bell the great multitude prostrate 
themselves, and the sacrifice of the mass is performed in 
the profoundest silence. Then 

Earth breaks up, time drops away, 
In flows heaven with its new day 
Of endless life, when He who trod, 
Very man and very God, 



r 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 1 35 

This earth in weakness, shame, and pain, 

Dying the death whose signs remain 

Up yonder on the accursed tree, — 

Shall come again, no more to be 

Of captivity the thrall, 

But the one God, All in all, 

King of kings, Lord of lords. 

As His servant John received the words, 

"I died, and live for evermore !" 

The dreamer is without. He is no sympathizer with 
Rome ; and yet Rome must have possession of some truth, 
else why had the Spirit entered to participate in the serv- 
ice? Did not he, the dreamer, owe it to himself to enter 
also, and join them in their service of praise? For, though 
much of the old pagan spirit remained, the influence of the 
new Love brought in by Christ had served to purify and 
elevate it; and wherever love was, there was the virtue 
which made worship acceptable to God. 

Third Experience. — Again the dreamer is caught up 
by the Spirit, and this time he is conveyed to Gottingen, 
in Germany, where he hears a university professor lecture 
on the Christ-Myth. The conclusion reached in the dis- 
sertation is, that Christ was simply 

A Man! — a right true man, however. 

Whose work was worthy a man's endeavor ; 

Work, that gave warrant almost sufl&cient 

To his disciples, for rather believing 

He was just omnipotent and omniscient. 

As it gives to us, for as frankly receiving 

His word, their tradition, — which, though it mean 

Something entirely different 



136 ROBERT BROWNING. 

From all that those who only heard it, 
In their simplicity thought and averred it, 
Had yet a meaning quite as respectable: 

Since, among other things, did it not teach "the natural 
sovereignty of our race?" Into this room the Spirit did 
not invite the dreamer to enter; for, though 

Truth's atmosphere may grow mephitic 
When Papist struggles with Dissenter, 

— the Critic leaves no air to poison ; 
Pumps out with ruthless ingenuity 
Atom by atom, and leaves you — vacuity. 

The dreamer then reviews the Critic's position. The 
Critic accepts Christ, but not as divine. What, then, re- 
mains? Can Christ claim pre-eminence on the score of 
Intellect? Other teachers have been great intellectuall}' ; 
but none before or after ever made the " important stum- 
ble " of claiming to be one with God. His goodness, then? 

Strange goodness, which upon the score 
Of being goodness, the mere due 
Of man to fellow-man, much more 
To God — should take another view 
Of its possessor's privilege, 
And bid him rule his race ! 

Moreover, what was the source of Christ's goodness ? 
Was it self-gained, or did God inspire it? If the outcome 
of moral genius, then we might praise him as a discoverer 
like Harvey, or a poet like Shakespeare; but we should not 
worship him nor recognize him as absolute and final au- 
thority on conduct. If his goodness were the gift of God, 
then we must look beyond the gift to the Giver. So that in 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 1 37 

neither case does simple goodness make Christ a ruler over 
men. Nor does Christ himself lay stress on this phase of 
his character. His precept does not run, "Believe in good, 
in justice, truth, now understood for the first time ;" but, 
"Believe in me, who lived and died, yet essentially am 
Lord of Life." The Critic is, moreover, a trifle inconsist- 
ent ; for, having ground the pearl of Christ's divinity to ashes, 
he does not bid his hearers sweep the dust away, but in- 
sists upon their taking back that faith " if it be not just 
whole, yet a pearl indeed." " Go home," he says : 

" Go home and venerate the M3^th 
I thus have experimented with — 
This Man, continue to adore Him 
Rather than all who went before Him, 
And all who ever followed after !" 

Meanwhile the Spirit has been in the class-room. Does 
this, the dreamer asks, signify that even here there is an 
element of sincere worship? If so, then does it make 
much matter what form of worship we adopt ? Is not a 
genial indifference to an}- form the most admirable temper } 
Holding 

A value for religion's self, 

A carelessness about the sects of it. 

Fourth (?) Experience. — The rebuke of the Spirit is 
instant and terrible. The storm and the darkness seize 
the dreamer, and fling him prone on the college door-step, 
and the Spirit's garment, which has been his guide, solace, 
and strength in all these journeyings, he sees withdrawing 
itself. Fear makes him quick of apprehension ; God has 
no tolerance for indifference of any sort. There is a chief 
best way of worship, and that way must be found; to find 
it is the highest end of man's earthl}' endeavor. 



138 ROBERT BROWNING. 

Needs must there be one way, our chief 
Best way of worship : let me strive 
To find it, and when found, contrive 
My fellows also take their share ! 
This constitutes my earthly care: 
God's is above it and distinct, 
For I, a man, with men am linked, 
And not a brute with brutes ; no gain 
That I experience, must remain 
Unshared : but should my best endeavor 
To share it, fail — subsisteth ever 
God's care above, and I exult 
That God, by God's own ways occult, 
May — doth, I will believe — bring back 
All wanderers to a single track. 
Meantime, I can but testify 
God's care for me — no more, can I — 
It is but for myself I know. 

Fifth Experience. — Upou reaching this better frame 
of mind, the dreamer is again permitted to catch at the fly- 
ing robe of the Spirit. 

And unrepelled 
Was lapped again in its folds full-fraught 
With warmth and wonder and delight, 
God's mercy being infinite. 

Again he is in the chapel of the Dissenters, and there he 
awakes. The preacher has reached his tenth and lastly. He 
violates in his preaching every known canon of good taste ; 
but he is God's prophet, and in the presence of that fact there 
is no room for criticism. The water of life may be dis- 
pensed in a shabby earthen cup, and bear the taint of the 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 1 39 

earth through which it comes; but it is the water of life 
nevertheless. And 

Better have knelt at the poorest stream 

That trickles in pain from the straitest rift ! 

For the less or the more is all God's gift, 

Who blocks up or breaks wide the granite-seam. 

And here, is there water or not, to drink? 

I then, in ignorance and weakness. 

Taking God's help, have attained to think 

My heart does best to receive in meekness 

That mode of worship, as most to his mind, 

Where earthly aids being cast behind, 

His All in All appears serene 

With the thinnest human veil between, 

I^etting the mj^stic lamps, the seven, 

The many motions of his spirit, 

Pass, as they list, to earth from heaven. 

For the preacher's merit or demerit. 

It were to be wished the flaws were fewer 

In the earthen vessel, holding treasure 

Which lies as safe in a golden ewer ; 

But the main thing is, does it hold good measure ? 

Heaven soon sets right all other matters ! — 

Ask, else, these ruins of humanity. 

This flesh worn out to rags and tatters. 

This soul at struggle with insanity, 

Who thence take comfort — can I doubt? — 

Which an empire gained, were a loss without. 

May it be mine ! And let us hope 

That no worse blessing befall the Pope, 



I40 ROBERT BROWNING. 

Nor may the Professor forego its peace 
At Gottingen presently, when, in the dusk 

Of his life, 

. Thicker and thicker the darkness fills 
The world through his misty spectacles, 
And he gropes for something more substantial 
Than a fable, myth or personification, — 
May Christ do for him what no mere man shall, 
And stand confessed as the God of salvation ! 

EASTER-DAY. 

BastER-Day is an apotheosis of endeavor. The diffi- 
culties and discouragements of the Christian life, whether 
as related to matters of faith or to matters of desire, are 
recognized and conceded; but to the poet this ideal of life, 
though man stumble at every step in the way of its achieve- 
ment, is the only thing worth living for. God has created 
man for himself; and the man who, in preference to God, 
fixes his heart upon the world, or upon art, or upon knowl- 
edge, or even upon love, has just dwarfed his nature to that 
extent. He has contented himself with the less when he 
might have had the greater, and set his love upon the part 
when he might have had the whole. This truth is borne 
into the poet in a vision of judgment. 

I FOUND 

Suddenly all the midnight round 

One fire. The dome of heaven had stood 

As made up of a multitude 

Of handbreadth cloudlets, one vast rack 

Of ripples infinite and black. 

From sky to sky. Sudden there went, 

Like horror and astonishment, 



EASTER-DAY. I41 

A fierce vindictive scribble of red 
Quick flame across, as if one said 
(The angry scribe of Judgment), ''There — 
Burn it !" . . . 

I felt begin 
The Judgment-Day. . . . 
There, stood I, found and fixed, I knew, 
Choosing the world. 

In the presence of this crisis, the poet's heart is brave, 
and his brain clear. He proposes, not simply to defend, 
but to applaud his choice, which he does in a remarkable 
analysis of the religio-worldly spirit : 

I resolved to sa}- 
"So was I framed by Thee, such way 
I put to use Thy senses here ! 
It was so beautiful, so near, 
Thy world, — what could I then but choose 
My part there ? Nor did I refuse 
To look above the transient boon 
Of time; but it was hard so soon, 
As in a short life, to give up 
Such beaut}^ : I could put the cup, 
Undrained of half its fullness, by ; 
But to renounce it utterly — 
That was too hard I Nor did the crj^ 
Which bade renounce it, touch my brain 
Authentically deep and plain 
Enough to make my lips let go. 
But Thou, who knowest all, dost know 
Whether I was not, life's brief while, 
Endeavoring to reconcile 



142 ROBERT BROWNING. 

Those lips (too tardily, alas !) 

To letting the dear remnant pass, 

One day, — some drops of earthly good 

Untasted ! Is it for this mood. 

That Thou, whose earth delights so well, 

Hast made its complement a hell?" 

To this the answer is a final belch of fire, and a Voice, 
which says : 

'' lyife is done, 
Time ends. Eternity 's begun. 
And thou art judged for evermore." 

Then comes the vision of God, and the Divine pro- 
nouncement : 

"All is come to pass. 
Such shows are over for each soul 
They had respect to. In the roll 
Of Judgment which convinced mankind 
Of sin, stood many, bold and blind, 
Terror must burn the truth into : 
Their fate for them ! — thou hadst to do 
With absolute Omnipotence, 
Able its judgments to dispense 
To the whole race, as every one 
Were its sole object. Judgment done, 
God is, thou art, — the rest is hurled 
To nothingness for thee. This world, 
This finite life, thou hast preferred. 
In disbelief of God's plain word, 
To heaven and to infinity. 
Here the probation was for thee. 



I 



EASTER-DA Y. 1 43 

To show thy soul the earthly mixed 
With heavenly, it must choose betwixt. 
The earthly joys lay palpable, — 
A taint in each, distinct as well; 
The heavenly flitted, faint and rare, 
Above them, but as truly were 
Taintless, so, in their nature, best. 
Thy choice was earth : thou didst attest 
'Twas fitter spirit should subserve 
The flesh, than flesh refine to nerve 
Beneath the spirit's play. 

Thou art shut 
Out of the heaven of spirit; glut 
Thy sense upon the world: 'tis thine 
Forever — take it !" 

At this the poet, in a transport, exclaims : 

"How? Is mine? 
The world? . . . Hast thou spoke 
Plainly in that? Earth's exquisite 
Treasures of wonder and delight 
For me? " 

To which God replies : 

"So soon made happy? Hadst thou learned 

What God accounteth happiness. 

Thou wouldst not find it hard to guess 

What hell may be His punishment 

For those who doubt if God invent < 



144 ROBERT BROWNING. 

Better than they. lyCt such men rest 
Content with what they judged the best. 

And thou, whose heaven self-ordained 
Was, to enjoy earth unrestrained. 
Do it ! Take all the ancient show ! 

Expend 
Kternity upon its shows. 
Flung thee as freely as one rose 
Out of a summer's opulence, 
Over the Kden-barrier whence 
Thou art excluded. Knock in vain!" 

Then the poet recounts to himself the vast, exhaustless 
beauty and the endless change of wonder which the earth 
affords, and while he is gloating over the prospective enjoy- 
ment of it all, God speaks again : 

"Welcome so to rate 
The arras-folds that variegate 
The earth, God's antechamber, well ! 
The wise, who waited there, could tell 
By these, what royalties in store 
I^ay one step past the entrance-door. 

All partial beauty was a pledge 

Of beauty in its plenitude : 

But since the pledge sufficed thy mood. 

Retain it ! plenitude be theirs 

Who looked above !" 

This suggests to the poet that perhaps, after all, earth 
is not so sufficing as he imagines. He heretofore turns to 



EASTER-DAY. 1 45 

art — the statuary of Greece, Italy's paiutings. But here 
the artist, who shrinks from being judged even by his best 
work, or by that which men most approve, is himself wit- 
ness to the inadequacy of his best efforts to express ideal 
beauty. If this is tie feeling of the artist living, what 
must be his view when freed from earth's limitations: 

Think, now, 
What pomp in Buonarroti's brow, 
With its new palace-brain where dwells 
Superb the soul, unvexed by cells 
That crumbled with the transient clay ! 
What visions will his right hand's sway 
Still turn to forms, as still they burst 
Upon him ? How will he quench thirst, 
Titanically infantine, 
I^aid at the breast of the Divine? 

Beauty in nature and art is a means of spiritual educa- 
tion, not the end of spiritual achievement. God pro- 
nounced his creation " very good " for its purpose, which 
was to prepare man for something better. 

So, in God's eye, the earth's first stuff 
Was, neither more nor less, enough 
To house man's soul, man's need fulfill. 

And those who have made the best use of the world 
have not been unwilling to leave it, since it has but culti- 
vated them to a desire for something more than it can itself 
furnish. 

Very well, says the poet, if Nature and Art are inade- 
quate, then remains knowledge. " Mind is best, I will seize 
the mind, forego the rest." But, answers God, the highest 
reaches of mind are but gleams of heaven meant to sting 

lo 



146 ROBERT BROWNING. 

the soul with hunger for full light. Only one thing more 
remains, says the poet, and that is Love, — "I pray for love, 
then, only!" Then the Voice reminds him how late this 
choice comes ; how blind he has been to all the manifesta- 
tions of love in the universe, and how, chiefly, he has 
turned away in unbelief from Christ, the fullest manifesta- 
tion of love. Conscious now, that whatever his choosing, 
if left to natural tastes and impulses, he should by no means 
better his condition, but only make it worse, the poet now 
craves to be placed again in the old human relation where, 
even if limited and hindered, he is fulfilling God's assign- 
ment, and thus is in the way to the proper achievement of 
his destiny. The noble passages embodying this thought 
we subjoin in full : 

Then I — " Behold, my spirit bleeds, 
Catches no more at broken reeds, — 
But lilies flower those reeds above : 
I let the world go, and take love ! 
lyove survives in me, albeit those 
I love be henceforth masks and shows, 
Not living men and women : still 
I mind how love repaired all ill. 
Cured wrong, soothed grief, made earth amends 
. With parents, brothers, children, friends ! 

Some semblance of a woman yet 
With eyes to help me to forget, 
Shall look on me ; and I will match 
Departed love with love, attach 
Old memories to new dreams, nor scorn 
The poorest of the grains of corn 
I save from shipwreck on this isle. 



EASTER-DAY. 1 47 

Trusting its barrenness may smile 
With happy foodful green one day, 
More precious for the pains. I pray, — 
I^eave to love, only!" 

At the word, 
The Form, I looked to have been stirred 
With pity and approval, rose 
O'er me, as when the headsman throws 
Ax over shoulder to make end — 
I fell prone, letting him expend 
His wrath, while thus the inflicting Voice 
Smote me : ''Is this thy final choice? 
I,ove is the best ? 'T is somewhat late ! 
And all thou dost enumerate 
Of power and beauty in the world. 
The mightiness of love was curled 
Inextricably round about. 
Love lay within it and without, 
To clasp thee, — but in vain ! Thy soul 
Still shrunk from him who made the whole, 
Still set deliberate aside 
His love ! — Now take love ! Well betide 
Thy tardy conscience ! Haste to take 
The show of love for the name's sake. 
Remembering every moment who. 
Beside creating thee unto 
These ends, and these for thee, was said 
To undergo death in thy stead 
In flesh like thine : so ran the tale. 
What doubt in thee could countervail 



ROBERT BROWNING, 

Belief in it? Upon the ground 

' That in the story ^had been found 

Too much love ! How could God love so ?' 

H^ who in all his works below 

Adapted to the needs of man, 

Made love the basis of the plan, — 

Did love, as was demonstrated : 

While man, who was so fit instead 

To hate, as ever}^ day gave proof, — 

Man thought man, for his kind's behoof. 

Both could and did invent that scheme 

Of perfect love : 'T would well beseem 

Cain's nature thou wast wont to praise, 

Not tally with God's usual ways !" 

And I cowered deprecatingly — 

" Thou I.ove of God ! Or let me die. 

Or grant what shall seem heaven almost ! 

lyCt me not know that all is lost, 

Though lost it be — leave me not tied 

To this despair, this corpse-like bride ! 

lyCt that old life seem mine — no more — 

With limitation as before, 

With darkness, hunger, toil, distress : 

Be all the earth a wilderness ! 

Only let me go on, go on, 

Still hoping ever and anon 

To reach one eve the Better lyand!" 

Then did the Form expand, expand — 
I knew him through the dread disguise 



EASTER-DAY. 149 

As the whole God within his eyes 
Kmbraced me. 

When I lived again, 
The day was breaking, — the gray plain 
I rose from, silvered thick with dew. 
Was this a vision? False or true? 
Since then, three varied years are spent, 
And commonly my mind is bent 
To think it was a dream — be sure 
A mere dream and distemperature — 
The last day's watching: then the night, — 
The shock of that strange Northern Light 
Set my head swimming, bred in me 
A dream. And so I live, you see, 
Go through the world, try, prove, reject. 
Prefer, still struggling to effect 
My warfare; happy that I can 
Be crossed and thwarted as a man, 
Not left in God's contempt apart, 
With ghastly smooth life, dead at heart, 
Tame in earth's paddock as her prize. 
Thank God, she still each method tries 
To catch me, who may yet escape. 
She knows, — the fiend in angel's shape ! 
Thank God, no paradise stands barred 
To entry, and I find it hard 
To be a Christian, as I said ! 
Still ever3^now and then my head 
Raised glad, sinks mournful — all grows drear 
Spite of the sunshine, while I fear 
And think, " How dreadful to be grudged 



I50 ROBERT BROWNING. 

No ease henceforth, as one that 's judged, 
Condemned to earth forever, shut 
From heaven !" 

But Kaster-Day breaks ! But 
Christ rises ! Mercy every way 
Is infinite, — and who can say ? 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 



Truths for Truth is Truths he worshipt, being true as he was brave ; 
Good, for Good is Good, he followed, yet he loved beyond the grave. 

Truth for truth, and good for goodl The Good, the True, the 

Pure, the Just, 
Take the charm ^^For ever*' from them, and they crumble into 

dust. 

— Locksley Hall Sixty Years After. 

152 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 

(1809=1892.) 

Tennyson, as a child of five, began his career as a 
poet in the cry which broke from him as the wind hur- 
ried him down the garden-walk: 

" I hear a Voice that 's speaking in the wind." 

Upon reading some verses produced in the lad's tw^elfth 
year, his father said, " If that boy dies, one of our great- 
est poets shall have gone." Tennyson's father was a 
clergyman in the village of Somersby, in Lincolnshire, 
where the poet was born, August 6, 1809. In 1826, with 
his brother Charles, he published his first serious at- 
tempts in versification. In 1828 he matriculated at 
Cambridge University, and formed the friendship with 
Arthur Hallam, w^hose death, in 1833, w^as immortalized 
in "In Memoriam." In 1842 appeared the collection of 
poems (in two volumes) which gave him rank as first 
of the younger poets. In 1845 he was placed on the 
civil pension list; and in 1850 appeared the "In Me- 
moriam." This latter 3'-ear also witnessed the poet's 
marriage, and his appointment as poet laureate. In 
1884 he accepted a peerage, and was gazetted Baron of 
Aldworth and Farringford. October 6, 1892, he died, 
and was buried in Westminster Abbey. No other poet 
has ever commanded so much variety of verse, or 
achieved such perfection of form. The spirit through- 
out is lofty, hopeful, and inspiring to the last degree; 
and no prophet, of any generation, has urged more per- 
suasively the claims of righteousness in thought and 
deed. 

Poems. Macmillan edition, in one volume. 

lyiFE. By Arthur Waugh. 

153 



154 ALFRED TENNYSON. 



IN MEMORIAM. 

This famous poem is really a series of lyrics, in which 
are blended personal sorrow for the loss of a friend and 
reflections upon the greater problems of life which death 
suggests to every .thoughtful mind. It was written to com- 
memorate the death of Arthur Henry Hallam, son of the 
historian, and close friend of the poet's. Hallam died in 
Vienna, in 1833. The poem was published originally in 
1850; two sections were subsequently added — lix in 1851, 
and xxxix in 1869. It opens with the following 

INVOCATION. 

Strong Son of God, immortal lyove, 

Whom we, that have not seen thy face, 
By faith, and faith alone, embrace. 

Believing where we can not prove; 

Thine are these orbs of light and shade ; 

Thou madest lyife in man and brute; 

Thou madest Death ; and lo ! thy foot 
Is on the skull which thou hast made. 

Thou wilt not leave us in the dust : 

Thou madest man, he knows not why; 
He thinks he was not made to die ; 

And thou hast made him : thou art just.^ 

Thou seemest human and divine ; 

The highest, holiest manhood, thou : 
Our wills are ours, we know not how ; 

Our wills are ours, to make them thine. 



IN MEMO RI AM, 1 55 

Our little systems have their day; 

They have their day and cease to be : 
They are but broken lights of thee, 

And thou, O Lord, art more than they. 

We have but faith : we can not know ; 

For knowledge is of things we see ; 

And yet we trust it comes from thee, 
A beam in darkness : let it grow. 

Let knowledge grow from more to more. 
But more of reverence in us dwell ; 
That mind and soul, according well, 

May make one music as before, 

But vaster. We are fools and slight ; 
We mock thee when we do not fear : 
But help thy foolish ones to bear ; 

Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light ! 

THE GAIN OF IvOSS.=^ 



I HKiyD it truth, with him^ who sings 
To one clear harp in divers tones. 
That men may rise on stepping-stones 

Of their dead selves* to higher things. 

But who shall so forecast the years. 
And find in loss a gain to match ? 
Or reach a hand through time to catch 

The far-off interest of tears? 



156 ALFRED TENNYSON. 

lyct lyove clasp Grief, lest both be drowned, 
lyet darkness keep her raven gloss : 
Ah! sweeter to be drunk with loss, 

To dance with death, to beat the ground,^ 

Than that the victor Hours should scorn 
The long result of love, and boast : 
** Behold the man that loved and lost ! 

But all he was is overworn."^ 



III. 

O Sorrow, cruel fellowship ! 

O Priestess in the vaults of Death ! 

O sweet and bitter in a breath ! 
What w^hispers from thy lying lip?' 

"The stars," she whispers, "blindly run 
A web is wov'n across the sky ; 
From out waste places comes a cry, 

And murmurs from the dying sun : 

"And all the phantom, Nature, stands — 
With all the music in her tone, 
A hollow echo of my own, — 

A hollow form with empt}^ hands." 

And shall I take a thing so blind. 
Embrace her as my natural good? 
Or crush her, like a vice of blood. 

Upon the threshold of the mind? 



IN MEMORIAM. 1 57 

XXVII. 

I envy not in any moods 

The captive void of noble rage, 

The linnet born within the cage, 
That never knew the summer woods; 

I envy not the beast that takes 

His license in the field of time, 

Unfetter'd by the sense of crime, 
To whom a conscience never wakes ; 

Nor, what may count itself as blest, 
The heart that never plighted troth 
But stagnates in the weeds of sloth; 

Nor any want-begotten rest.^ 

I hold it true, whate'er befall ; 

I feel it, when I sorrow most, — 
'Tis better to have loved and lost, 

Than never to have loved at all.^ 

LOVK'S REASONING. 

XXXI. ^*^ 

When Lazarus left his charnel-cave. 

And home to Mary's house returned. 
Was this demanded — if he yearned 

To hear her weeping by his grave ? 

"Where wert thou, brother, those four days?" 

There lives no record of reply, 

Which telling what it is to die 
Had surely added praise to praise.^^ 



158 ALFRED TENNYSON. 

From every house the neighbors met, 

The streets were filled with joyful sound, 
A solemn gladness even crowned 

The purple brows of Olivet. 

Behold a man raised up by Christ ! 

The rest remaineth unrevealed; 

He told it not ; or something sealed 
The lips of that Evangelist. 

XXXII. 

Her eyes are homes of silent prayer ; 
Nor other thought her mind admits 
But, he was dead, and there he sits ; 

And He that brought him back is there. 

Then one deep love doth supersede 
All other, when her ardent gaze 
Roves from the living brother's face, 

And rests upon the lyife indeed. 

All subtle thought, all curious fears, 
Borne down by gladness so complete. 
She bows, she bathes the Savior's feet 

With costly spikenard and with tears. 

Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers. 
Whose loves in higher love endure; 
What souls possess themselves so pure. 

Or is their blessedness like theirs? 



IN MEMORIAM. 1 59 

XXXIII. 

O thou that after toil and storm 

Mayst seem to have reached a purer air, 
Whose faith has center everywhere, 

Nor cares to fix itself to form, 

lycave thou thy sister when she prays, 
Her early Heaven, her happy views ; 
Nor thou with shadowed hint confuse 

A life that leads melodious days. 

Her faith through form is pure as thine. 
Her hands are quicker unto good : 
O, sacred be the flesh and blood 

To which she links a truth divine ! 

See thou, that countest reason ripe 

In holding by the law within, 

Thou fail not in a world of sin. 
And ev'n for want of such a type.-^^ 

XXXVI. 

Though truths in manhood darkly join, 
Deep-seated in our mystic frame. 
We yield all blessing to the name 

Of Him that made them current coin ;^^ 

For Wisdom dealt with mortal powers. 
Where truth in closest words^"^ shall fail. 
When truth embodied in a tale 

Shall enter in at lowly doors. 



l6o ALFRED TENNYSON. 

And so the Word had breath, and wrought 
With human hands the creed of creeds 
In lovehness of perfect deeds, 

More strong than all poetic thought ; 

Which he may read that binds the sheaf, 
Or builds the house, or digs the grave. 
And those wild eyes that watch the wave 

In roarings round the coral reef.^^ 

THE IMPERISHABIIvlTY OF VIRTUOUS KNDKAVOR. 

I.II. 
" What keeps a spirit wholly true 

To that ideal which he bears? 

What record ? not the sinless years 
That breathed beneath the Syrian blue :^^ 

'* So fret not, like an idle girl. 

That life is dashed with flecks of sin. 
Abide : thy wealth is gathered in. 

When Time hath sundered shell from pearL" 

I.IV. 

O yet we trust^^ that somehow good 

Will be the final goal of ill, 

To pangs of nature, sins of will. 
Defects of doubt, and taints of blood ; 

That nothing walks with aimless feet ; 

That not one life shall be destroyed, 

Or cast as rubbish to the void. 
When God hath made the pile complete; 



IN MEMORIAM. l6l 



That not a worm is cloven in vain; 
That not a moth with vain desire 
Is shriveled in a fruitless fire, 

Or but subserves another's gain. 

Behold, we know not anything; 

I can but trust that good shall fall 
At last— far off—at last, to all, 

And every winter change to spring. 

So runs my dream : but what am I ? 
An infant cr}- ing in the night : 
An infant cr3ang for the light : 

And with no language but a cry. 



The wish, that of the living whole^^ 
No life may fail beyond the grave, 
Derives it not from what we have 

The likest God within the soul? 

Are God and Nature then at strife, 

That Nature lends such evil dreams ? 
So careful of the type she seems. 

So careless of the single life ; 

That I, considering everywhere 
Her secret meaning in her deeds. 
And finding that of fifty seeds 

She often brings but one to bear, 



1 62 ■ ALFRED TENNYSON. 

I falter where I firmly trod, 

And falling with my weight of cares 
Upon the great world's altar-stairs^^ 

That slope through darkness up to God, 

I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, 
And gather dust and chaff, and call 
To what I feel is Lord of all 

And faintly trust the larger hope. 



LVI. 

" So careful of the type?" but no. 

From scarped cliff and quarried stone 
She cries, "A thousand types are gone; 

I care for nothing, all shall go. 

*' Thou makest thine appeal to me: 
I bring to life, I bring to death: 
The spirit does but mean the breath : 

I know no more." And he, shall he, 

Man, her last work, who seemed so fair, 
Such splendid purpose in his eyes, 
Who rolled the psalm to wintry skies, 

Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer, 

Who trusted God was love indeed, 
And love Creation's final law — 
Though Nature, red in tooth and claw 

With ravine,^^ shrieked against his creed— 



IN MEMORIAM. 163 

Who loved, who suffered countless ills, 
Who battled for the True, the Just, 
Be blown about the desert dust, 

Or sealed within the iron hills ? 

No more? A monster then, a dream, 
A discord. Dragons of the prime, 
That tare each other in their slime. 

Were mellow music matched with him. 

O life as futile, then, as frail ! 

O for thy voice^^ to soothe and bless ! 

What hope of answer, or redress i^ 
Behind the veil, behind the veil.^'^ 



LOVE'S RKMEMBRANCB. 



Dost thou look back on what hath been, 
As some divinely gifted man. 
Whose life in low estate began 

And on a simple village green ; 

Who breaks his birth's invidious bar,^* 

And grasps the skirts of happy chance, 
And breasts the blows of circumstance, 

And grapples with his evil star ; 

Who makes by force his merit known 
And lives to clutch the golden keys, 
To mold a mighty state's decrees, 

And shape the whisper of the throne ; 



1 64 ALFRED TENNYSON. 

And moving up from high to higher, 
Becomes on Fortune's crowning slope 
The pillar of a people's hope, 

The center of a world's desire ; 

Yet feels, as in. a pensive dream. 

When all his active powers are still, 
A distant dearness in the hill, 

A secret sweetness in the stream, 

The limit of his narrower fate, 

While yet beside its vocal springs 
He played at counselors and kings, 

With one that was his earliest mate ; 

Who plows with pain his native lea 
And reaps the labor of his hands, 
Or in the furrow musing stands ; 

"Does my old friend remember me?" 



CXVII. 

O days and hours, your work is this,^^ 
To hold me from my proper place, 
A little while from his embrace, 

For fuller gain of after bliss : 

That out of distance might ensue 
Desire of nearness doubly sweet; 
And unto meeting when we meet, 

Delight a hundredfold accrue, 



IN MEMORIAM. 165 

For every grain of sand that runs, 

And every span of shade that steals, 
And every kiss of toothed wheels, 

And all the courses of the suns. 

I^XVIII.^^ 

When in the down I sink my head, 

Sleep, Death's twin-brother, times my breath ; 

Sleep, Death's twin-brother, knows not Death, 
Nor can I dream of thee as dead : 

I walk as ere I walked forlorn, 

When all our path was fresh with dew, 
And all the bugle breezes blew 

Reveillee to the breaking morn. 

But what is this? I turn about, 
I find a trouble in thine eye. 
Which makes me sad, I know not why, 

Nor can my dream resolve the doubt : 

But ere the lark hath left the lea 

I wake, and I discern the truth ; 

It is the trouble of my youth 
That foolish sleep transfers to thee. 

A ROYAIv PILGRIM." 
IvXXXIV. 

When I contemplate all alone 

The life that had been thine below. 
And fix my thoughts on all the glow 

To which thy crescent would have grown ; 



1 66 ALFRED TENNYSON. 

I see thee sitting crowned with good, 
A central warmth diffusing bliss 
In glance and smile, and clasp and kiss, 

On all the branches of thy blood ; 

Thy blood, my friend, and partly mine;^^ 
For now the day was drawing on. 
When thou should' st link thy life with one 

Of mine own house, and boys of thine 

Had babbled "Uncle" on my knee; 
But that remorseless iron hour 
Made cypress of her orange flower, 

Despair of Hope, and earth of thee. 

I seem to meet their least desire, 

To clap their cheeks, to call them mine. 
I see their unborn faces shine 

Beside the never-lighted fire. 

I see myself an honored guest, 

Thy partner in the flowery walk 
Of letters, genial table-talk. 

Or deep dispute, and graceful jest ; 

While now thy prosperous labor fills 
The lips of men with honest praise. 
And sun by sun the happy daj^s 

Descend below the golden hills 

With promise of a morn as fair ; 

And all the train of bounteous hours 
Conduct by paths of growing powers, 

To reverence and the silver hair : 



IN MEMORIAM. 



167 



Till slowly worn her earthly robe, 
Her lavish mission richly wrought, 
Leaving great legacies of thought, 

Thy spirit should fail from off the globe ; 

What time mine owm might also flee, 
As linked with thine in love and fate, 
And, hovering o'er the dolorous strait 

To the other shore, involved in thee, 

Arrive at last the blessed goal. 

And He that died in Holy Land 
Would reach us out the shining hand, 

And take us as a single soul. 

What reed was that on which I leant? 
Ah, backward fancy, wherefore wake 
The old bitterness again, and break 

The low beginnings of content ?^^ 



Cix. 

Heart-affluence in discursive talk^^ 

From household fountains never dr}- ; 
The critic clearness of an e5^e, 

That saw through all the Muses' w^alk ; 



Seraphic intellect and force 

To seize and throw the doubts of man 
Impassioned logic, which outran 

The hearer in its fiery course; 



1 68 ALFRED TENNYSON. 

High nature amorous of the good, 

But touched with no ascetic gloom ; 
And passion pure in snowy bloom 

Through all the years of April blood ; 

A love of freedom rarely felt, 
Of freedom in her regal seat 
Of England; not the schoolboy heat, 

The blind hysterics of the Celt f^ 

And manhood fused with female grace 
In such a sort, the child would twine 
A trustful hand, unasked, in thine. 

And find his comfort in thy face ; 

All these have been, and thee mine eyes 
Have looked on : if they looked in vain, 
My shame is greater who remain, 

Nor let thy wisdom make me wise. 



ex. 

Thy converse drew us with delight, 
The men of rathe^^ and riper years : 
The feeble soul, a haunt of fears. 

Forgot his weakness in thy sight. 

On thee the loyal-hearted hung. 

The proud was half disarmed of pride. 
Nor cared the serpent at thy side 

To flicker with his double tongue. 



IN MEMORIAM, 169 

The stern were mild when thou wert by, 
The flippant put himself to school 
And heard thee, and the brazen fool 

Was softened, and he knew not why ; 

While I, thy nearest, sat apart, 

*And felt thy triumph was as mine ; 
And loved them more, that the}^ were thine. 

The graceful tact, the Christian art ; 

Nor mine the sweetness or the skill, 
But mine the love that will not tire. 
And, born of love, the vague desire 

That spurs an imitative will. 



CXI. 

The churl in spirit, up or down 

Along the scale of ranks, through all. 
To him who grasps a golden ball. 

By blood a king, at heart a clown ; 

The churl in spirit, howe'er he veil 

His w^ant in forms for fashion's sake. 
Will let his coltish nature break 

At seasons through the gilded pale : 

For w^ho can alwa3^s act? but he, 

To w^hom a thousand memories call. 
Not being less but more than all 

The gentleness he seemed to be, 



lyo ALFRED TENNYSON. 

Best seemed the thing he was, and joined 

Each office of the social hour 

To noble manners, as the flower 
And native growth of noble mind ; 

Nor ever narrowness or spite, 
Or villain fancy fleeting by, 
Drew in the expression of an eye, . 

Where God and Nature met in light ; 

And thus he bore without abuse 

The grand old name of gentleman, 
Defamed by every charlatan. 

And soiled with all ignoble use. 

FOR SPIRITUAL COMMUNION.^^ 
xciv. 

How pure at heart and sound in head. 
With what divine affections bold, 
Should be the man whose thought would hold 

An hour's communion with the dead ! 

In vain shalt thou, or any, call 

The spirits from their golden day, 
Kxcept, like them, thou too canst say. 

My spirit is at peace with all. 

They haunt the silence of the breast, 

Imaginations calm and fair, 

The memory like a cloudless air, 
The conscience as a sea at rest : 



IN MEMORIAM. 171 

But when the heart is full of din, 
And doubt beside the portal waits, 
They can but listen at the gates, 

And hear the household jar within. 



TO CONQUER DOUBT. 
XCVI. 

You say, but with no touch of scorn, 

Sweet-hearted,^'* 3'ou, whose light-blue eyes 
Are tender over drowning flies, 

You tell me, doubt is Devil-born. 

I know not : one indeed I knew^^ 
In many a subtle question versed, 
Who touched a jarring l3^re at first, 

But ever strove to make it true : 

Perplext in faith, but pure in deeds, 

At last he beat his music out. 

There lives more faith in honest doubt, 
Believe me, than in half the creeds. 

He fought his doubts and gathered strength, 
He would not make his judgment blind. 
He faced the specters of the mind 

And laid them : thus he came at length 

To find a stronger faith his own; 

And Power was with him in the night, 
Which makes the darkness and the light, 

And dwells not in the light alone, 



172 ALFRED TENNYSON-. 

But in the darkness and the cloud, 
As over Sinai's peaks of old, 
While Israel made their gods of gold,' 

Although the trumpet blew so loud. 



THE RBIGN OP CHRIST.37 
CVI. 

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 
The flying cloud, the frosty light: 
The year is dying in the night ; 

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 

Ring out the old, ring in the new, 

Ring, happy bells, across the snow : 
The year is going, let him go ; 

Ring out the false, ring in the true. 

Ring out the grief that saps the mind. 
For those that here we see no more ; 
Ring out the feud of rich and poor, 

Ring in redress to all mankind. 

Ring out a slowly-dying cause. 

And ancient forms of party strife ; 
Ring in the nobler modes of life. 

With sweeter manners, purer laws. 

Ring out the want, the care, the sin. 
The faithless coldness of the times ; 
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, 

But ring the fuller minstrel in. 



IN MEMORIAM. 173 

Ring out false pride in place and blood, 

The civic slander and the spite ; 

Ring in the love of truth and right, 
Ring in the common love of good. 

Ring out old shapes of foul disease ; 

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold ; 

Ring out the thousand wars of old, 
Ring in the thousand years of peace. 

Ring in the valiant man and free, 

The larger heart, the kindlier hand ; 
Ring out the darkness of the land, 

Ring in the Christ that is to be. 



KNOWLEDGE AND WISDOM.^s 

CXIV. 

Who loves not Knowledge? Who shall rail 
Against her beauty ? May she mix 
With men and prosper ! Who shall fix 
Her pillars ? Let her work prevail. 

But on her forehead sits a fire : 

She sets her forward countenance 
And leaps into the future chance. 

Submitting all things to desire.^*^ 

Half-grown as yet, a child, and vain — 
She can not fight the fear of death. 
What is she, cut from love and faith, 

But some wild Pallas from the brain 



1/4 ALFRED TENNYSON. 

Of Demons, fier5^-liot to burst 
All barriers in her onward race 
For power ? lyet her know her place ; 

She is the second, not the first. 

A higher hand must make her mild, 
If all be not in vain ; and guide 
Her footsteps, moving side by side 

With wisdom, like the younger child : 

For she is earthly, of the mind ; 

But Wisdom heavenly, of the soul. 

O, friend,*^ who camest to thy goal 
So early, leaving me behind, 

I would the great world grew like thee. 
Who grewest not alone in power 
And knowledge, but by year and hour 

In reverence and in charity! 



cxx. 

I trust I have not wasted breath : 
I think we are not wholly brain. 
Magnetic mockeries ; not in vain, 

lyike Paul with beasts,^^ I fought with Death ; 

Not only cunning casts in clay : 

Let Science prove we are, and then 
What matters Science unto men,^^ 

At least to me ? I would not stay. 



IN MEMORIAM. 1 75 

Let him, the wiser man who springs 
Hereafter, up from childhood shape 
His action Hke the greater ape, 

But I was born to other things. 

THE GIvORY OF TRUE MANHOOD.''^ 
CXVIII. 

Contemplate all this work of Time, 

The giant laboring in his youth ; 

Nor dream of human love and truth, 
As dying Nature's earth and lime ; 

But trust that those we call the dead 
Are breathers of an ampler day 
For ever-nobler ends. They sa}^. 

The solid earth whereon we tread, 

In tracts of fluent heat began, 

And grew to seeming-random forms. 
The seeming prej^ of cyclic storms. 

Till at the last arose the man ; 

Who throve and branched from clime to clime. 

The herald of a higher race. 

And of himself in higher place, 
If so he type this work of time 

Within himself, from more to more ; 
Or, crowned with attributes of woe 
Like glories, move his course, and show 

That life is not as idle ore, 



176 Alfred tennyson. 

But iron dug from central gloom, 

And heated hot with burning fears, 
And dipt in baths of hissing tears, 

And battered with the shocks of doom 

To shape and use. Arise and fly 

The reeling Faun, the sensual feast ; 
Move upward, working out the beast, 

And let the ape and tiger die. 



^ GOD REVKAIvBD TO FAITH.** 
CXXIV. 

That which we dare invoke to bless ; 

Our dearest faith ; our ghastliest doubt; 

He, They, One, All ; within, without ; 
The Power in darkness whom we guess ; 

I found Him not in world or sun, 
Or eagle's wing, or insect's eye ; 
Nor through the questions men may try, 

The petty cobwebs we have spun : 

If e'er when faith had fallen asleep, 
I heard a voice, " Believe no more," 
And heard an ever-breaking shore 

That tumbled in the Godless deep ; 

A warmth within the breast would melt 
The freezing reason's colder part, 
And like a man in wrath the heart 

Stood up and answered, " I have felt." 



IN MEMORIAM. 177 

No, like a child iu doubt and fear : 

But that blind clamor made me wise ; 
Then was I as a child that cries, 

But, crying, knows his father near ; 

And what I am beheld again 

What is, and no man understands ; 
And out of darkness came the hands 

That reach through nature, molding men. 

GOD REIGNS." 
cxxvi. 
lyove is and was my I^ord and King, 
And in his presence I attend 
To hear the tidings of my friend, 
Which every hour his couriers bring. 

lyove is and was my King and lyord. 
And will be, though as yet I keep 
Within his court on earth, and sleep 

Encompassed by his faithful guard, 

And hear at times a sentinel 

Who moves about from place to place. 
And whispers to the worlds of space, 

In the deep night, that all is well, 

CXXVII. 

And all is well, though faith and form 

Be sundered in the night of fear ; 

Well roars the storm to those that hear 
A deeper voice across the storm, 
12 



lyS ALFRED TENNYSON. 

Proclaiming social truth shall spread, 
And justice, ev'n though thrice again 
The red fool-fury of the Seine*^ 

Should pile her barricades with dead. 

But ill for him that wears a crown, 
And him, the lazar, in his rags : 
They tremble, the sustaining crags ; 

The spires of ice are toppled down, 

And molten up, and roar in flood ; 
The fortress crashes from on high, 
The brute earth lightens to the sky, 

And the great ^on sinks in blood. 

And compassed by the fires of Hell; 
While thou, dear spirit, happy star, 
O'erlook'st the tumult from afar. 

And smilest, knowing all is well. 



CXXVIII. 

The love that rose on stronger wings, 
Unpalsied when he met with Death, 
Is comrade of the lesser faith 

That sees the course of human things. 

No doubt vast eddies in the flood 
Of onward time shall yet be made. 
And throned races may degrade ; 

Yet, O ye mysteries of good, 



IN MEMORIAM. 1 79 

Wild Hours that fly with Hope and Fear, 
If all your office had to do 
With old results that look like new ; 

If this were all your mission here, 

To draw, to sheathe a useless sword, 
To fool the crowed with glorious lies, 
To cleave a creed in sects and cries, 

To change the bearing of a word. 

To shift an arbitrary power, 

To cramp the student at his desk, 
To make old bareness picturesque 

And tuft with grass a feudal tower ; 

Why then my scorn might well descend 
On you and yours. I see in part 
That all, as in some piece of art, 

Is toil cooperant to an end. 



cxxxi. 

O living will that shalt endure 

When all that seems shall suffer shock, 
Rise in the spiritual rock, 
Flow through our deeds and make them pure, 

That we may lift from out of dust 
A voice as unto him that hears, 
A cry above the conquered years 

To one that with us works, and trust. 



l8o ALFRED TENNYSON. 

With faith that comes of self-control, 
The truths that never can be proved 
Until we close with all we loved, 

And all we flow from, soul in soul. 



THE PALACE OF ART. 

A MAN of ample means, and highly endowed, sets be- 
fore himself one object in life — to be happy. To this end 
he selects a secluded site, builds himself a " Palace of Art," 
surrounds himself with everything that appeals to the most 
cultivated taste and refined sense of luxury, and then shuts 
rigorously out all interests of his fellow-men, that nothing 
may clash with his enjoyment. Of course, his scheme 
fails. No man liveth to himself, and love is the final re- 
quirement for happiness. His lesson is bitter, but whole- 
some, and he is taught that being human, he must find and 
claim kinship with all that is human to reach the goal of a 
happy life. 

J BUiivT my soul a lordly pleasure-house. 

Wherein at ease for aye to dwell. 
I said, " O Soul, make merry and carouse, 
Dear soul, for all is well." 

A huge crag-platform, smooth as burnished brass 

I chose. The ranged ramparts bright 
From level meadow-bases of deep grass 
Suddenly scaled the light. 

Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or shelf 

The rock rose clear, or winding stair. 
My soul would live alone unto herself 
In her high palace there. 



THE PALACE OF ART. l8l 

And " while the world runs round and round," I said, 

" Reign thou apart, a quiet king. 
Still as, while Saturn whirls, his steadfast shade 
Sleeps on his luminous ring."^ 

To which my soul made answer readily : 

'' Trust me, in bliss I shall abide 
In this great mansion that is built for me, 
So royal-rich and wide." 

Full, of long-sounding corridors it was, 

That over- vaulted grateful gloom. 
Through which the livelong day my soul did pass. 
Well-pleased, from room to room. 

Full of great rooms and small the palace stood, 

All various, each a perfect whole 
From living Nature, fit for every mood 
And change of my still soul. 

For some were hung with arras^ green and blue, 

Showing a gaudy summer-morn. 
Where with puffed cheek the belted hunter blew 
His wreathed bugle-horn. 

One seemed all dark and red — a tract of sand. 

And some one pacing there alone, 

Who paced forever in a glimmering land, 

lyit with a low large moon. 

One showed an iron coast and angry waves. 
You seemed to hear them climb and fall 
And roar rock-thwarted under bellowing caves, 
Beneath the windy wall. 



1 82 ALFRED TENNYSON. 

And one, a full-fed river winding slow 

By herds upon an endless plaiuj 
The ragged rims of thunder brooding low, 
With vShadow-streaks of rain. 

And one, the reapers at their sultry toil. 

In front they bound the sheaves. Behind 
Were realms of upland, prodigal in oil, 
And hoary to the wind.^ 

And one, a foreground black with stones and slags, 

Beyond, a line of heights, and higher 
All barred with long white cloud the scornful crags. 
And highest, snow and fire. 

And one, an English home — gray twilight poured 

On dewy pastures, dewy trees. 
Softer than sleep — all things in order stored, 
A haunt of ancient Peace. 

Nor these alone, but every landscape fair, 

As fit for every mood of mind. 
Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, was there 
Not less than truth designed. 

Then in the towers I placed great bells that swung. 

Moved of themselves, with silver sound ; 
And with choice paintings of wise men I hung 
The royal dais round. 

For there was Milton like a seraph strong, 

Beside him Shakespeare bland and mild ; 
And there the world-worn Dante grasped his song. 
And somewhat grimly smiled. 



THE PALACE OF ART, 183 

And there the Ionian father of the rest;"* 

A million wrinkles carved his skin ; 
A hundred winters snowed upon his breast, 
From cheek and throat and chin. 

Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately-set 

Many an arch high up did lift, 

And angels rising and descending met 

With interchange of gift. 

Below was all mosaic choicely planned 

With cycles of the human tale 
Of this wide world, the times of every land 
So wrought, they will not fail. 

The people here, a beast of burden slow,^ 

Toiled onward, pricked with goads and stings ; 
Here played, a tiger, rolling to and fro 
The heads and crowns of kings ; 

Here rose, an athlete, strong to break or bind 

All force in bonds that might endure. 
And here once more like some sick man declined. 
And trusted any cure. 

But over these she^ trod : and those great bells 

Began to chime. She took her throne : 
She sat betwixt the shining Oriels, 
To sing her songs alone. 

And through the topmost Oriels' colored flame 

Two godlike faces gazed below ; 
Plato the wise, and large-browed Verulam,^ 
The first of those who know. 



1 84 ALFRED TENNYSON. 

And all those names, that in their motion were 

Full-welling fountain-heads of change, 
Betwixt the slender shafts were blazoned fair 
In diverse raiment strange : 

Through which the lights, rose, amber, emerald, blue, 

Flushed in her temples, and her eyes. 
And from her lips, as morn from Memnon,^ drew 
Rivers of melodies. 

No nightingale delighteth to prolong 

Her low preamble all alone, 
More than my soul to hear her echoed song 
Throb through the ribbed stone ; 

Singing and murmuring in her feastful mirth, 

Joying to feel herself alive, 
lyord over Nature, Lord of the visible earth, 
lyOrd of the senses five ; 

Communing with herself: "All these are mine, 

And let the world have peace or wars, 
'T is one to me." She — when young night divine 
Crowned dying day with stars. 

Making sweet close of his delicious toils — 

Lit light in wreaths and anadems. 
And pure quintessences of precious oils 
In hollowed moons of gems. 

To mimic heaven ; and clapt her hands and cried : 

" I marvel if my still delight 
In this great house so royal-rich and wide. 
Be flattered to the height. 



THE PALACE On ART. 1 85 

'* O all things fair to sate m}^ various e3'es ! 
O shapes and hues that please me well ! 

silent faces of the Great and Wise, 

My Gods, with whom I dwell! 

"O God-like isolation which art mine, 

I can but count thee perfect gain, 
What time I watch the darkening droves of swine 
That range on 3'onder plain. 

"In filth}^ sloughs they roll a prurient skin, 

They graze and wallow, breed and sleep; 
And oft some brainless devil enters in. 
And drives them to the deep."^ 

Then of the moral instinct would she prate 

And of the rising from the dead, 
As hers by right of full-accomplished Fate ; 
And at the last she said : 

" I take possession of man's mind and deed. 
I care not what the sects ma}- brawl. 

1 sit as God, holding no form of creed, 

But contemplating all." 

Full oft the riddle of the painful earth 

Flashed through her as she sat alone, 
Yet not the less held she her solemn mirth. 
And intellectual throne. 

And so she throve and prospered : so three 3'ears 

She prospered : on the fourth she fell, 
I^ike Herod,^^ when the shout was in his ears, 
Struck through with pangs of hell. 



1 86 ALFRED TENNYSON. 

Lest she should fail and perish utterly, 

God, before whom ever lie bare 
The abysmal deeps of Personality, 

Plagued her with sore despair. 

When she would think, where'er she turned her sight 

The airy hand confusion wrought, 
Wrote, ^'Mene, mene,"^^ and divided quite 
The kingdom of her thought. 

Deep dread and loathing of her solitude 

Fell on her, from which mood was born 
Scorn of herself; again, from out that mood 
I^aughter at her self-scorn. 

"What! is not this my place of strength," she said, 

"My spacious mansion built for me, 
Whereof the strong foundation-stones were laid 
Since my first memory?" 

But in dark corners of her palace stood 

Uncertain shapes ; and unawares 
On white-eyed phantasms weeping tears of blood, 
And horrible nightmares. 

And hollow shades enclosing hearts of flame, 

And, with dimfretted foreheads all, 
On corpses three-months old at noon she came, 
That stood against the wall. 

A spot of dull stagnation, without light 

Or power of movement, seemed my soul, 
'Mid onward-sloping motions infinite, 
Making for one sure goal. 



THE PALACE OF ART. 187 

A Still salt pool, locked in with bars of sand, 

Left on the shore ; that hears all night 
The plunging seas draw backward from the land 
Their moon-led waters white. 

A star that with the choral starry dance 

Joined not, but stood, and standing saw 
The hollow orb of moving Circumstance^''^ 
Rolled round by one fixed law. 

Back on herself her serpent pride had curled. 
"No voice," she shrieked in that lone hall, 
**No voice breaks through the stillness of this world: 
One deep, deep silence all !" 

She, moldering with the dull earth's moldering sod, 

Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame, 
Lay there exiled from eternal God, 
Lost to her place and name ; 

And death and life she hated equally, 
And nothing saw, for her despair, 
But dreadful time, dreadful eternity. 
No comfort anywhere ; 

Remaining utterly confused with fears, 
And ever worse with growing time. 
And ever unrelieved by dismal tears, 
And all alone in crime : 

Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt round 

With blackness as a solid wall, 
Far off she seemed to hear the dully^^ sound 
Of human footsteps fall. 



1 88 ALFRED TENNYSON. 

As in strange lands a traveler, walking slow, 

In doubt and great perplexity, 
A little before moon-rise hears the low 
Moan of an unknown sea; 

And knows not if it be thunder, or a sound 

Of rocks thrown down, or one deep cry 
Of great wild beasts ; then thinketh, "" I have found 
A new land, but I die." 

She howled aloud : **I am on fire within ! 

There comes no murmur of reply. 
What- is it that will take away ni}^ sin. 
And save me lest I die?" 

So when four years were wholly finished, 

She threw her royal robes away. 
'' Make me a cottage in the vale," she said, 
"Where I may mourn and pray. 

"Yet pull not down my palace towers, that are 

So lightly, beautifully built : 
Perchance I may return with others^^ there 
When I have purged my guilt." 



\ 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 1 89 

THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 

The subjoined selection from the "Id3'lls of the King," 
contains the "Temptation of Sir Bedivere " and "The Pass- 
ing of Arthur," two instructive episodes done into marvel- 
ous verse. The story is briefly this : The Round Table, 
which may be taken to represent an ideal society, has been 
broken up by sin. Divided among themselves, an attempt 
has been made by his knights to dethrone Arthur, who, in 
the battle following, receives his death-wound. Knowing 
that the end has come, Arthur asks to be taken to the mar- 
gin of a lake which is near, and thither he is borne by Sir 
Bedivere. The king, handing Sir Bedivere his sword Ex- 
calibur, commands him to throw it into the lake, and re- 
port the result. Sir Bedivere, noting the value and beauty 
of the weapon, covets it, and seeks to hide it. The king 
pei-ceives his duplicity, and threatens him ; then Sir Bedi- 
vere obeys. The result is communicated to the king, who 
prepares himself for the journc}', and who, escorted by 
three queens, passes from sight to "where, beyond these 
voices, there is peace." The lessons of obedience in the 
case of Sir Bedivere, and of submission in the case of the 
king, are enforced in passages of memorable beauty. 

Thkrk drew lie^ forth the brand^ ExcaUbur,^ 
And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon, 
Brightening- the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth 
And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt: 
For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks, 
Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work 
Of subtlest jewelry. He gazed so long 
That both his eyes were dazzled as he stood, 
This way and that dividing the swift mind. 
In act to throw : but at the last it seemed 
Better to leave Excalibur concealed 



IQO ALFRED TENNYSON. 

There in the many-knotted waterflags, 
That whistled stiff and dry about the marge. 
So strode he back slow to the wounded King. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : 
"Hast thou performed my mission which I gave? 
What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?" 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: 
"I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, 
And the wild water lapping on the crag." 

To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale : 
" Thou hast betrayed thy nature and thy name,* 
Not rendering true answer, as beseemed 
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight : 
For surer sign had followed, either hand, 
Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. 
This is a shameful thing for men to lie. 
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again. 
As thou art lief ^ and dear, and do the thing 
I bade thee, watch, and lightly*^ bring me word." 

Then went Sir Bedivere the second time 
Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere, 
Counting the dewy pebbles, fixed in thought; 
But when he saw the wonder of the hilt. 
How curiously and strangely chased, he smote 
His palms together, and he cried aloud : 

"And if indeed I cast the brand away,^ 
Surely a precious thing, one worthy note, 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 191 

Should thus be lost for ever from the earth, 

Which might have pleased the eyes of many men. 

What good should follow this, if this were done ? 

What harm, undone? Deep harm to disobey, 

Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. 

Were it well to obey then, if a king demand 

An act unprofitable, against himself? 

The King is sick, and knows not what he does. 

What record, or what relic of ni}^ lord 

Should be to aftertime, but empty breath 

And rumors of a doubt ? But were this kept, 

Stored in some treasure-house of might}' kings, 

Some one might show it at a joust of arms. 

Saying, ' King Arthur's sword, Excalibur, 

Wrought by the lonely maiden of the I^ake. 

Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps 

Upon the hidden bases of the hills.' 

So might some old man speak in the aftertime 

To all the people, winning reverence. 

But now much honor and much fame were lost." 

So spake he, clouded with his own conceit, 
And hid Excalibur the second time. 
And so strode back slow to the wounded King. 

Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily : 
"What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?" 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: 
" I heard the water lapping on the crag. 
And the long ripple washing in the reeds." 



192 ALFRED TENNYSON. 

To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath : 
"Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, 
Unknightly, traitor-hearted ! Woe is me ! 
Authority forgets a dying king. 
Laid widowed of the power in his eye 
That bowed the will. I see thee what thou art, 
For thou, the latest-left of all my knights, 
In whom should meet the offices of all, 
Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt ; 
Hither from lust of gold, or like a girl 
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. 
Yet, for^ a man may fail in duty twice, 
And the third time may prosper, get thee hence : 
But, if thou spare to fling Kxcalibur, 
I will arise and slay thee with my hands." 

Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran, 
And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged 
Among the bulrush beds, and clutched the sword, 
And strongly wheeled and threw it. The great 

brand 
Made lightnings in the splendor of the moon, 
And flashing^ round and round, and whirled in an 

arch. 
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn,^^ 
Seen where the moving isles of winter shock 
By night, with noises of the Northern Sea. 
So flashed and fell the brand Kxcalibur: 
But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm 
Clothed in white samite, ^^ mystic, wonderful, 
And caught him by the hilt, and brandished him 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 1 93 

Three times, and drew him under in the mere. 
And lightly went the other to the King. 

Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker 
breath : 
" Now see I by thine e5^es that this is done. 
Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen?" 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 
" Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems 
Should blind my purpose, for I never saw, 
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die, 
Not though I live three lives of mortal men, 
So great a miracle as yonder hilt. 
Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him; 
But when I looked again, behold an arm, 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, 
That caught him by the hilt, and brandished him 
Three times, and drew him under in the mere." 

And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard: 
" M}^ end draws nigh; 'tis time that I were gone. 
Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight, 
And bear me to the margin ; 3^et I fear 
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die." 

So sajang, from the pavement he half rose, 
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm, 
And looking wistfully with w^ide blue eyes 
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere 
Remorsefully regarded through his tears. 
And would have spoken, but he found not words ; 

13 



194 ALFRED TENNYSON. 

Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee, 
O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands, 
And rising bore him through the place of tombs. 

But, as he walked, King Arthur panted hard. 
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed 
When all the house is mute. So sighed the King, 
Muttering and murmuring at his ear, "Quick, quick ! 
I fear it is too late, and I shall die." 
But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge, 
Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walked, 
Larger than human on the frozen hills. 
He heard the deep behind him, and a cry 
Before. His own thought drove him like a goad. 
Dry clashed his harness in the icy caves^^ 
And barren chasms, and all to left and right 
The bare black cliff clanged round him, as he based 
His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang 
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels — 
And on a sudden, lo ! the level lake, 
And the long glories of the winter moon. 

Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge, 
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern. 
Beneath them; and descending they were ware^^ 
That all the decks were dense with stately forms, 
Black-stoled,^* black-hooded, like a dream — by these 
Three Queens with crowns of gold : and from them 

rose 
A cry that shivered to the tingling stars, 
And, as it were one voice, an agony 
Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 1 95 

All night in a waste land, where no one conies, 
Or hath come, since the making of the world. 

Then murmured Arthur, " Place me in the 

barge." 
So to the barge they came. There those three 

Queens 
Put forth their hands, and took the king, and wept. 
But she, that rose the tallest of them all 
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap, 
And loosed the shattered casque, and chafed his 

hands. 
And called him by his name, complaining loud. 
And dropping bitter tears against a brow 
Striped with dark blood: for all his face was white 
And colorless, and like the withered moon 
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east ; 
And all his greaves and cuisses^^ dashed with drops 
Of onset : and the light and lustrous curls — 
That made his forehead like a rising sun 
High from the dais-throne — were parched with dust; 
Or, clotfed into points and hanging loose. 
Mixed with the knightly growth that fringed his lips. 
So like a shattered column lay the King ; 
Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest. 
From spur to plume a star of tournament, 
Shot through the lists at Camelot, and charged 
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. 

Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere : 
"Ah ! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go? 



196 ALFRED TENNYSON, 

Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes ? 
For now I see the true old times are dead, 
When every morning brought a noble chance, 
And every chance brought out a noble knight. 
Such times have been not since the light that led 
The holy Klders^*^ with the gift of myrrh. 
But now the whole Round Table is dissolved 
Which was an image of the mighty world, 
And I, the last, go forth companionless, 
And the days darken round me, and the years. 
Among new men, strange faces, other minds." 

And slowly answered Arthur from the barge: 
" The old order changeth, yielding place to new, 
And God fulfills himself in many ways, 
lycst one good custom should corrupt the world. 
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me? 
I have lived my life, and that which I have done 
May He within himself make pure ! but thou, 
If thou shouldst never see my face again, 
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by 

prayer 
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy 

voice 
Rise like a fountain for me night and day. 
For what are men better than sheep or goats 
iThat nourish a blind life within the brain. 
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer 
Both for themselves and those who call them friend ? 
For so the whole round earth is every way 
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. 



I 



IN THE children's HOSPITAL. 1 97 

But now farewell. I am going a long way 
With these thou seest — if indeed I go 
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) — 
To the island-valley of Avilion ;^^ 
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, 
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies 
Deep meadowed, happy, fair with orchard lawns 
And bowery hollows crowned with summer sea, 
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound." 



IN THE CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL. 

This poem is based upon a story pubhshed in a mag- 
azine, and the two girls are drawn from actual life. It 
should be noted that it is the hospital nurse who speaks 
throughout. 

EMMIE. 



Our doctor had called in another, I never had seen 

him before, 
But he sent a chill to my heart when I saw him 

come in at the door, 
Fresh from the surgery-schools of France and of 

other lands — 
Harsh red hair, big voice, big chest, big merciless 

hands ! 
Wonderful cures he had done, O 3^es, but they said 

too of him 
He was happier using the knife than in trying to 

save the limb, 



198 ALFRED TENNYSON. 

And that I can well believe, for he looked so coarse 

and so red, 
I could think he was one of those who would break 

their jests on the dead, 
And mangle the living dog that had loved him and 

fawned at his knee — 
Drenched with the hellish oorali^ — that ever such 

things should be ! 



II. 

Here was a boy — I am sure that some of our chil- 
dren would die 

But for the voice of Love, and the smile, and the 
comforting eye — 

Here was a boy in the ward, every bone seemed out 
of its place — 

Caught in a mill and crushed — it was all but a hope- 
less case : 

And he handled him gently enough ; but his voice 
and his face were not kind, 

And it was but a hopeless case, he had seen it and 
made up his mind. 

And he said to me roughly, " The lad will need lit- 
tle more of your care." 

"All the more need," I told him, "to seek the Lord 
Jesus in prayer; 

They are all his children here, and I pray for them 
all as my own :" 

But he turned to me, "Ay, good woman, can prayer 
set a broken bone?" 



IN THE CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL. 1 99 

Then he muttered half to himself, but I know that 

I heard him say, 
^'All very well — but the good Lord Jesus has had 

his day." 

III. 

Had? has it come? It has only dawned. It will 
come by and b}^ 

O how could I serve in the wards if the hope of the 
world were a lie ? 

How could I bear with the sights and the loath- 
some smells of disease 

But that He said, "Ye do it to me, when ye do it 
to these?" 

IV. 

So he went. And we past to this ward where the 

younger children are laid : 
Here is the cot of our orphan, our darling, our meek 

little maid; 
Empty you see just now! We have lost her who 

loved her so much — 
Patient of pain though as quick as a sensitive plant 

to the touch ; 
Hers was the prettiest prattle, it often moved me 

to tears, 
Hers was the gratefulest heart I have found in a 

child of her years — 
Nay you remember our Enimie ; you used to send 

her the flowers ; 
How^ she would smile at 'em, play with 'em, talk to 

'em hours after hours ! 



200 ALFRED TENNYSON. 

They that can wander at will where the works of 

the Lord are revealed 
Little guess what joy can be got from a cowslip out 

of the field ; 
Flowers to these "spirits in prison" are all the}^ 

can know of the spring, 
They freshen and sweeten the wards like the Avaft of 

an Angel's wing; 
And she lay with a flower in one hand and her thin 

hands crost on her breast — 
Wan, but as pretty as heart can desire, and we 

thought her at rest, 
Quietly sleeping — so quiet, our doctor said, "Poor 

little dear ! 
Nurse, I must do it to-morrow; she'll never live 

through it, I fear." 

V. 

I walked with our kindly old doctor as far as the 

head of the stair, 
Then I returned to the ward ; the child did n't see 

I was there. 

VI. 

Never since I was nurse, had I been so grieved and 

so vext ! 
Emmie had heard him. Softly she called from her 

cot to the next, 
"He says I shall never live through it; O Annie, 

what shall I do?" 
Annie considered. " If I," said the wise little Annie, 

"was you, 



IN THE CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL. 20I 

I should cry to the dear Lord Jesus to help me ; for, 

Emmie, you see, 
It 's all in the picture there — ' Little children should 

come to me.' " 
(Meaning the print that you gave us, I find that it 

always can please 
Our children, the dear Lord Jesus with children 

about his knees.) 
"Yes, and I will," said Emmie; "but then if I call 

to the Lord, 
How should he know that it 's me ? such a lot of 

beds in the ward !" 
That was a puzzle for Annie. Again she considered, 

and said : 
"Emmie, you put out your arms, and you leave 'em 

outside on the bed — 
The Lord has so much to see to ! but, Emmie, you 

tell it him plain, 
It 's the little girl with her arms lying out on the 

counterpane." 

VII. 

I had sat three nights by the child — I could not 

watch her for four : 
My brain had begun to reel — I felt I could do it no 

more. 
That was my sleeping-night, but I thought that it 

never would pass. 
There was a thunderclap once, and a clatter of hail 

en the glass, 
And there was a phantom cry that I heard as I tost 

about, 



202 ALFRED TENNYSON. 

The motherless bleat of a lamb in the storm and 

the darkness without; 
My sleep was broken, beside, with dreams of the 

dreadful knife 
And fears for our delicate Kmmie who scarce would 

escape with her life ; 
Then in the gray of the morning it seemed she 

stood by me and smiled. 
And the doctor came at his hour, and we went to 

see to the child. 

VIII. 

He had brought his ghastly tools : we believed her 

asleep again — 
Her dear, long, lean, little arms lying out on the 

counterpane. 
Say that His day is done ! Ah ! why should we 

care what they say ? 
The Lord of the children had heard her, and Kmmie 

had passed away. 



MERLIN AND THE GLEAM. 203 



MERLIN AND THE GLEAM. 

This is the dying message of au old prophet to the 
youth of all generations. The prophet is himself Merlin, 
and The Gleam is that ideal light, the life-guest of every 
noble soul. "To pursue it is the love of life; to die in its 
pursuit is joy: for beyond death its glory shines. There- 
fore now, on the verge of death, he gives his last message 
to the young, calling on them to follow, as he has done, the 
light that was never reached, but never failed." 

I. 

YOUNG mariner. 
You from the haven 
Under the sea cHff, 
You that are watching 
The gray Magician 
With e3'es of wonder, 
/ am Merhn, 

And / am dying, 

1 am Merlin 

Who follow The Gleam. 

II. 
Mighty the Wizard^ 
Who found me at sunrise 
Sleeping, and woke me 
And learned me Magic ! 
Great the Master, 
And sweet the Magic, 
When over the valley, 
In early summers, 



204 ALFRED TENNYSON, 

Over the mountain, 
On human faces, 
And all around me, 
Moving to melody. 
Floated The Gleam. 

III. 

Once at the croak of a Raven 

who crost it,^ 
A barbarous people, 
Blind to the magic. 
And deaf to the melody, 
Snarled at and cursed me. 
A demon vext me, 
The light retreated, 
The landskip darkened, 
The melody deadened, 
The Master whispered, 
"Follow The Gleam." 

IV. 

Then to the melody,^ 

Over a wilderness 

Gliding, and glancing at 

Klf of the woodland. 

Gnome of the cavern. 

Griffin and Giant, 

And dancing of Fairies 

In desolate hollows. 

And wraiths of the mountain. 



MERLIN AND THE GLEAM. 205 

And rolling of dragons 
By warble of water, 
Or cataract music 
Of falling torrents, 
Flitted The Gleam. 



Down from the mountain 

And over the level, 

And streaming and shining on 

Silent river, 

Silvery willow, 

Pasture and plowland, 

Innocent maidens. 

Garrulous children. 

Homestead and harvest, 

Reaper and gleaner. 

And rough-ruddy faces 

Of lowly labor, 

Slided The Gleam— 

VI. 

Then, with a melody* 
Stronger and statelier, 
Led me at length 
To the city and palace 
Of Arthur the king ; 
Touched at the golden 
Cross of the churches, 



2o6 ALFRED TENNYSON. 

Flashed on the Tournament, 
Flickered and bickered 
From helmet to helmet, 
And last on the forehead 
Of Arthur the blameless 
Rested The Gleam. 



VII. 

Clouds and darkness 

Closed upon Camelot ; 

Arthur had vanished 

I knew not whither, 

The king who loved me, 

And can not die ; 

For out of the darkness 

Silent and slowly 

The Gleam, that had waned to a 

wnntry glimmer 
On icy fallow 
And faded forest, 
Drew to the valley 
Named of the shadow, 
And slowly brightening 
Out of the glimmer, 
And slowly moving again to a 

melody 
Yearningly tender, 
Fell on the shadow, 
No longer a shadow, 
But clothed with The Gleam. 



MERLIN AND THE GLEAM. 20 7 

VIII. 

Aud broader and brighter 

The Gleam flying onward, 

Wed to the melody, 

Sang through the world ; 

And slower and fainter, 

Old and weary ,^ 

But eager to follow^ 

I saw, whenever 

In passing it glanced upon 

Hamlet or city, 

That under the Crosses 

The dead man's garden, 

The mortal hillock, 

Would break into blossom ; 

And so to the land's 

L,ast limit I came — 

And can no longer, 

But die rejoicing. 

For through the Magic 

Of Him the Mighty, 

Who taught me in childhood. 

There on the border 

Of boundless Ocean, 

And all but in Heaven 

Hovers The Gleam. 

IX. 

Not of the sunlight, 
Not of the moonlight, 
Not of the starlight ! 



2o8 ALFRED TENNYSON. 

O young Mariner, 
Down to the haven, 
Call 3^our companions, 
I^aunch your vessel, 
And crowd your canvas, 
And, ere it vanishes 
Over the margin, 
After it, follow it, 
Follow The Gleam. 



SIR GALAHAD. 

Sir Gai^ahad was one of the knights ot the Round 
Table, and successful in his quest for the Holy Grail. The 
Holy Grail, according to the legend, was the cup used at 
the " Ivast Supper," and yielded itself only to the pure in 
heart. In this poem the poet seeks to display the beauty of 
celestial purity, the elevation of mind belonging to it, and 
the reality of the invisible world to its vision. 

My good blade carves the casques of men, 

My tough lance thrusteth sure, 
My strength is as the strength of ten, 

Because my heart is pure. 
The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, 

The hard brands shiver on the steel. 
The splintered spear-shafts crack and fly. 

The horse and rider reel: 
They reel, they roll in clanging lists, 

And when the tide of combat stands, 
Perfume and flowers fall in showers. 

That lightly rain from ladies' hands. 



SIR GALAHAD. 209 

How sweet are looks that ladies bend 

Ou whom their favors fall ! 
For them I battle till the end, 

To save from shame and thrall : 
But all my heart is drawn above, 

My knees are bowed in crypt and shrine: 
I never felt the kiss of love, 

Nor maiden's hand in mine. 
More bounteous aspects on me beam, 

Me mightier transports move and thrill ; 
So keep I fair through faith and prayer 

A virgin heart in work and will. 

When down the stormy crescent goes, 

A light before me swims. 
Between dark stems the forest glows, 

I hear a noise of hymns : 
Then by some secret shrine I ride ; 

I hear a voice but none are there ; 
The stalls are void, the doors are wide, 

The tapers burning fair. 
Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth. 

The silver vessels sparkle clean. 
The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, 

And solemn chants resound between. 

Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres 

I find a magic bark; 
I leap on board: no helmsman steers: 

I float till all is dark. 
A gentle sound, an awful light ! 

Three angels bear the Holy Grail : 
14 



2IO ALFRED TENNYSON. 

With folded feet, in stoles of white, 

On sleeping wings they sail. 
Ah, blessed vision! blood of God! 

My spirit beats her mortal bars. 
As down dark tides the glory slides, 

And star-like mingles with the stars. 

When on my goodly charger borne 

Through dreaming towns I go, 
The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, 

The streets are dumb with snow. 
The tempest crackles on the leads, 

And, ringing, springs from brand and mail ; 
But o'er the dark a glory spreads, 

And gilds the driving hail. 
I leave the plain, I climb the height; 

No branchy thicket shelter yields ; 
But blessed forms in whistling storms 

Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. 

A maiden knight — to me is given 

Such hope, I know not fear ; 
I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven 

That often meet me here. 
I muse on joy that will not cease, 

Pure spaces clothed in living beams. 
Pure lilies of eternal peace, 

Whose odors haunt my dreams ; 
And, stricken by an angel's hand, 

This mortal armor that I wear, 
This weight and size, this heart and eyes, 

Are touched, are turned to finest air. 



THE HIGHER PANTHEISM. 211 

The clouds are broken in the sky, 

And through the mountain-walls 
A rolling organ-harmony 

Swells up, and shakes and falls. 
Then move the trees, the copses nod, 

Wings flutter, voices hover clear: 
" O just and faithful knight of God ! 

Ride on ! the prize is near." 
So pass I hostel, hall, and grange ; 

By bridge and ford, by park and pale, 
All-armed I ride, whate'er betide, 

Until I find the Holy Grail. 



THE HIGHER PANTHEISM. 

The universe is a revelation of God, distorted perhaps, 
but true; and God is all about us. In bim we live and 
move and have our being; therefore communion with him 
is the most natural thing in the world. While recognizing 
the universe as God, the poet, it will be noticed, pre- 
serves at the same time the distinct personality of God and 
of man. 

The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills 

and the plains — 
Are not these, O Soul, the Vision of Him who 

reigns ? 

Is not the Vision He ? though He be not that which 

He seems ? 
Dreams are true while the}^ last, and do we not live 

in dreams? 



212 ALFRED TENNYSON. 

Earth, these solid stars, this weight of body and 

limb, 
Are they not sign and symbol of thy division from 

Him? 

Dark is the world to thee : thyself art the reason 

why; 
For is He not all but thou, that hast power to feel 

"lam I?" 

Glory about thee, without thee ; and thou fulfillest 

thy doom. 
Making Him broken gleams, and a stifled splendor 

and gloom. 

Speak to Him thou for He hears, and Spirit with 

Spirit can meet — 
Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands 

and feet. 

God is law say the wise ; O Soul, and, let us re- 
joice, 

For if He thunder by law the thunder is yet His 
voice. 

I^aw is God, say some: no God at all, says the 

fool ; 
For all we have power to see is a straight staff bent 

in a pool; 

And the ear of man can not hear, and the eye of 

man can not see ; 
But if we could see and hear, this Vision — were it 

not He? 



CROSSING THE BAR. 213 



CROSSING THE BAR. 

This is one of the poet's latest compositions. It is an 
exquisite picture of the traveler setting out upon a strange 
journe}' ; but staying himself in confidence that the Great 
Pilot will bring him in peace and safety to the journey's end. 

Sunset and evening star, 

And one clear call for me ! 
And may there be no moaning of the bar, 

When I put out to sea, 

But such a tide as moving seems asleep, 

Too full for sound and foam, 
When that which drew from out the boundless 
deep 

Turns again home. 

Twilight and evening bell, 

And after that the dark ! 
And may there be no sadness of farewell, 

When I embark; 

For though from out our bourne of Time and 
Place 

The flood may bear me far, 
I hope to see my Pilot face to face 

When I have crost the bar. 




(JJ^M^j^tA^j^ 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 



It is a great gift to mankind when a poet is raised up among 
us "who devotes his great powers to the sublime purpose of spread- 
ing among men the principles of mercy and justice and freedom. 
This our friend "Whittier has done in a degree unsurpassed by 
any other poet who has spoken to the world in our noble tongue, 

—Johfi Bright. 
216 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 
(1807—1892.) 

The poetry of John Greenleaf Whittier is remark- 
able for its simplicity and earnestness. He was born 
in Haverhill, Mass., December 17, 1807, and died in 
Hampton Falls, N. H., September 7, 1892. As a boy he 
worked on the .farm, attending Haverhill Academy for 
a time, and afterward teaching school to obtain money 
for a further education. At twenty-two he entered upon 
his journalistic career as editor of the American Ma?iu- 
facturer, of Boston. I^ater he edited successively the 
Haverhill Gazette, and the New England Weekly Re- 
view, Hartford. Whittier devoted much of his strength 
to the support of the anti-slavery movement. In 1836 
he was elected secretary of the American Anti-slavery 
Society, and went to Philadelphia, where he took the 
editorship of the Pennsylvania Freeman. His fearless 
attitude provoked much hostility, and he was even men- 
aced by mobs. In 1840 he settled in Amesbury, Mass. 
Among his poems may be mentioned "Snow Bound," 
"My Soul and I," "Skipper Ireson's Ride," "Barbara 
Freitchie," "Maud Muller," etc., etc. He was a mem- 
ber of the Society of Friends, more commonly known as 
"Quakers." 

See "John Greenleaf Whittier, his Life, Genius, and 
Writings," by W. S. Kennedy, Boston, 18S3. 

217 



2l8 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 



OUR MASTER. 

On September 30, 1866, Whittier inclosed this poem with 
a note to Mr. Fields: "I inclose for Annie Fields a poem of 
mine which has never seen the light. It presents my view 
of Christ as the special manifestation of the lyove of God 
to Humanity." 

Immortai, lyove, forever full, 

Forever flowing free, 
Forever shared, forever whole, 

A never-ebbing sea ! 

Our outward lips confess the name 

All other names above ; 
lyOve only knoweth whence it came 

And comprehendeth love. 

Blow, winds of God, awake and blow 

The mists of earth away ! 
Shine out, O lyight Divine, and show 

How wide and far we stray ! 

Hush every lip, close every book. 

The strife of tongues forbear ; 
Why forward reach, or backward look, 

For love that clasps like air ? 

We may not climb the heavenly steeps 
To bring the Lord Christ down : 

In vain we search the lowest deeps. 
For him no depths can drown. 



OUR MASTER. 219 

Nor holy bread, nor blood of grape, 

The lineaments restore 
Of him we know in outward shape 

And in the flesh no more. 

He Cometh not a king to reign ; 

The world's long hope is dim ; 
The weary centuries watch in vain 

The clouds of heaven for him. 

Death comes, life goes ; the asking eye 

And ear are answerless ; 
The grave is dumb, the hollow sky 

Is sad with silentness. 

The letter fails, and systems fall. 

And every symbol wanes ; 
The Spirit over-brooding all 

Eternal Love remains. 

And not for signs in heaven above 

Or earth below they look, 
Who know with John his smile of love, 

With Peter his rebuke. 

In joy of inward peace, or sense 

Of sorrow over sin, 
He is his own best evidence. 

His witness is within. 

No fable old, nor mythic lore, 

Nor dream of bards and seers, 
No dead fact stranded on the shore 

Of the oblivious years ; — 



220 JOHN GREENLEAF WH II TIER. 

But warm, sweet, tender, even yet 

A present help is he ; 
And faith has still its Olivet, 

And love its Galilee. 

The healing of his seamless dress 
"^ Is by our beds of pain ; 
We touch him in life's throng and press, 
And we are whole again. 

Through him the first fond prayers are said 

Our lips of childhood frame, 
The last low whispers of our dead 

Are burdened with his name. 

O Lord and Master of us all ! 

Whate'er our name or sign, 
We own thy sway, w^e hear thy call. 

We test our lives by thine. 

Thou judgest us; thy purity 

Doth all our lusts condemn ; - 

The love that draws us nearer thee 
Is hot with wrath to them. 

Our thoughts lie open to thy sight; 

And, naked to thy glance. 
Our secret sins are in the light 

Of thy pure countenance. 

Thy healing pains, a keen distress 

Thy tender light shines in ; 
Thy sweetness is the bitterness, 

Thy grace the pang of sin. 



OUR MASTER. 221 

Yet, weak and blinded though we be, 

Thou dost our service own; 
We bring our var^dng gifts to thee, 

And thou rejectest none. 

To thee our full humanit)^, 

' Its joys and pains, belong ; ~^ 

The wrong of man to man on thee 
Inflicts a deeper wrong. 

Who hates, hates thee ; who loves, becomes 

Therein to thee allied ; 
All sweet accords of hearts and homes 

In thee are multiplied. 

Deep strike thy roots, O heavenly Vine, 

Within our earthly sod. 
Most human and yet most divine, 

The flower of man and God ! 

O Love ! O Life ! Our faith and sight 

Thy presence maketh one, 
As through transfigured clouds of white 

We trace the noon-day sun. 

So, to our mortal ej^es subdued, 

Flesh-veiled, but not concealed, 
We know in thee the fatherhood 

And heart of God revealed. 

We faintly hear, we dimly see, 

In differing phrase we pray ; 
But, dim or clear, we own in thee 

The Light, the Truth, the Way ! 



222 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER, 

The homage that we render thee 

Is still our Father's own; 
Nor jealous claim or rivalry 

Divides the Cross and Throne. 

To do thy will is more than praise, 
As words are less than deeds, 

And simple trust can find thy ways 
We miss with chart of creeds. 

No pride of self thy service hath, 
No place for me and mine ; 

Our human strength is weakness, death 
Our life, apart from thine. 

Apart from thee all gain is loss. 

All labor vainly done; 
The solemn shadow of thy Cross 

Is better than the sun. 



Alone, O lyove ineffable ! 

Thy saving name is given ; 
To turn aside from thee is hell, 

To walk with thee is heaven ! 



How vain, secure in all thou art. 
Our noisy championship ! 

The sighing of the contrite heart 
Is more than flattering lip. 



OUR MASTER. 223 

Not thine the bigot's partial plea, 

Nor thine the zealot's ban ; 
Thou well canst spare a love of thee 

Which ends in hate of man. 



Our Friend, our Brother, and our Lord, 

What may th}^ service be? 
Nor name, nor form, nor ritual word. 

But simply following thee. 

We bring no ghastly holocaust,^ 

We pile no graven stone ; 
He serves thee best who loveth most^ 

His brothers and thy own. 

Thy litanies,' sweet offices^ 

Of love and gratitude ; 
Thy sacramental liturgies 

The joy of doing good. 

In vain shall waves of incense drift 

The vaulted nave around. 
In vain the minster turret lift 

Its brazen weights of sound. 

The heart must ring thy Christmas bells, 

Thy inward altars raise ; 
Its faith and hope thy canticles. 

And its obedience praise ! 



224 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 



THE ETERNAL GOODNESS. 

This poem was written in 1865. Of it the late John 
Bright wrote: "It is worth a crowd of sermons which are 
spoken from the pulpits of our sects and Churches, which 
I do not wish to undervalue." 

O FRiiiNDS ! with whom my feet have trod 

The quiet isles of prayer, 
Glad witness to your zeal for God 

And love of man I bear. 



I trace your lines of argument ; 

Your logic linked and strong 
I weigh as one who dreads dissent, 

And fears a doubt as wrong. 

But still my human hands are weak 

To hold your iron creeds : 
Against the words ye bid me speak 

My heart within me pleads. 

Who fathoms the Eternal Thought? 

Who talks of scheme and plan ? 
The L,ord is God ! He needeth not 

The poor device of man. 

I walk with bare, hushed feet the ground 
Ye tread with boldness shod ; 

I dare not fix with mete and bound^ 
The love and power of God. 



ETERNAL GOODNESS. 225 

Ye praise his justice ; even sucli 

His pitying love I deem : 
Ye seek a king ; I fain would touch 

The robe that hath no seam. 

Ye see the curse which overbroods 

A world of pain and loss; 
I hear our lyord's beatitudes 

And pra^'er upon the cross. 

More than 3'our schoolmen teach, within 

Myself, alas ! I know : 
Too dark ye can not paint the sin, 

Too small the merit show. 

I bow ni}' forehead to the dust, 

I veil mine e}'es for shame, 
And urge, in trembling self-distrust, 

A prayer without a claim. 

I see the wrong that round me lies, 

I feel the guilt within; 
I hear, with groan and travail-cries, 

The world confess its sin. 

Yet, in the maddening maze of things, 

And tossed by storm and flood, 
To one fixed trust m}- spirit clings ; 

I know that God is good ! 

Not mine to look where cherubim 

And seraphs ma}^ not see. 
But nothing can be good in him 

Which evil is in me. 
15 



226 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 

The wrong that pains my soul below 

I dare not throne above, 
I know not of his hate, — I know 

His goodness and his love. 

I dimly guess from blessings known 

Of greater out of sight, 
And, with the chastened Psalmist, own 

His judgments, too, are right. 

I long for household voices gone, 
For vanished smiles I long,^ 

But God hath led my dear ones on, 
And he can do no wrong. 

I know not what the future hath 

Of marvel or surprise, 
Assured alone that life and death 

His mercy underlies. 

And if my heart and flesh are weak 

To bear an untried pain. 
The bruised reed he will not break,^ 

But strengthen and sustain. 

No offering of my own I have, 
Nor works my faith to prove ; 

I can but give the gifts he gave. 
And plead his love for love. 

And so beside the Silent Sea 

I wait the muffled oar; 
No harm from him can come to me 

On ocean or on shore. 



MV SOUL AND I. 227 

I know not where his islands lift 

Their fronded* palms in air ; 
I only know I can not drift 
Beyond his love and care. 

O brothers ! if my faith is vain, 

If hopes like these betray, 
Pray for me that my feet may gain 

The sure and safer way. 

And Thou, O Lord ! by whom are seen 

Thy creatures as they be, 
Forgive me if too close I lean 

My human heart on thee ! 



MY SOUL AND I. 

This poem was written in 1847. It contains a sugges- 
tion of personal examination, which, if healthfully con- 
ducted, would be of immense value as an aid to the high- 
est spiritual living. 

Stand still, my soul, in the silent dark, 

I would question thee. 
Alone in the shadow drear and stark 

With God and me ! 

What, my soul, was thy errand here? 

Was it mirth or ease, 
Or heaping up dust from year to year? 

" Nay, none of these !" 



228 JOHN GREENLEAF IVHITTIER. 

Speak, soul, aright in his holy sight 

Whose eye looks still 
And steadily on thee through the night : 

*'To do his will!" 

What hast thou done, O soul of mine, 

That thou tremblest so ? 
Hast thou wrought his task, and kept the line 

He bade thee go? 

What, silent all! art sad of cheer? 

Art fearful now? 
When God seemed far and men were near, 

How brave wert thou ! 

Aha ! thou tremblest ! — well I see 

Thou 'rt craven grown. 
Is it so hard with God and me 

To stand alone? 

Summon thy sunshine bravery back, 

O wretched sprite ! 
I^et me hear thy voice through this deep and black 

Abysmal night. 

What hast thou wrought for Right and Truth, 

For God and Man, 
From the golden hours of bright-eyed youth 

To life's mid span? 

Ah, soul of mine, thy tones I hear, 

But weak and low; 
lyike far sad murmurs on my ear 

They come and go. 



MV SOUL AND I. 229 

" I have wrestled stoutly with the Wrong, 

And borne the Right 
' From beneath the footfall of the throng 
To life and light. 

"Wherever Freedom shivered a chain/ 

God speed, quoth I ; 
To Error amidst her shouting train 

I gave the lie." 

Ah, soul of mine! ah, soul of mine! 

Thy deeds are well : 
Were they wrought for Truth's sake or for thine ? 

My soul, pray tell. 

" Of all the work my hand hath wrought 

Beneath the sky, 
Save a place in kindl}^ human thought, 

No gain have I." 

Go to, go to ! for thy very self 

Thy deeds were done : 
Thou for fame, the miser for pelf, 

Your end is one ! 

And where art thou going, soul of mine? 

Canst see the end? 
And whither this troubled life of thine 

Evermore doth tend? 

What daunts thee now? what shakes thee so? 

My sad soul, sa3'. 
" I see a cloud like a curtain low 

Hang o'er my way. 



230 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER, 

" Whither I go I can not tell : 

That cloud hangs black, 
High as the heaven and deep as hell, 

Across my track. 

" I see it5 shadow coldly enwrap 

The souls before. 
Sadly they enter it, step by step, 

To return no more. 

"They shrink, they shudder, dear God! they kneel 

To thee in prayer. 
They shut their eyes on the cloud, but feel 

That it still is there. 

" In vain they turn from the dread Before 

To the Known and Gone; 
For while gazing behind them evermore 

Their feet glide on. 

*' Yet, at times, I see upon sweet pale faces 

A light begin 
To tremble, as if from holy places 

And shrines within. 

"And at times methinks their cold lips move 

With hymn and prayer, 
As if somewhat of awe, but more of love 

And hope were there. 

" I call on the souls who have left the light 

To reveal their lot ; 
I bend mine ear to that wall of night, 

And they answer not. 



MY SOUL AND I. 23 1 

" But I hear around me sighs of pain 

And the cry of fear, 
And a sound like the slow, sad dropping of rain, 

Each drop a tear ! 

*'Ah, the cloud is dark, and day by day 

I am moving thither : 
I must pass beneath it on my way — 

God pity me !— whithkr?" 

Ah, soul of mine ! so brave and wise 

In the life-storm loud, 
Fronting so calmly all human eyes 

In the sunlit crowd! 

Now standing apart with God and me 

Thou art weakness all, 
Gazing vainly after the things to be 

Through Death's dread wall. 

But never for this, never for this 

Was thy being lent ; 
For the craven's fear is but selfishness, 

Like his merriment. 

Folly and Fear are sisters twain : 

One closing her eyes. 
The other peopling the dark inane^ 

With spectral lies. 

Know well, my soul, God's hand controls 

Whate'er thou fearest; 
Round him in calmest music rolls 

Whate'er thou hearest. 



232 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 

What to thee is shadow, to Him is day, 
And the end He knoweth, 

And not on a blind and aimless way 
The spirit goeth. 

Man sees no future, — a phantom show 

Is alone before him ; 
Past time is dead, and the grasses grow, 

And flowers bloom o'er him. 

Nothing before, nothing behind ; 

The steps of Faith 
Fall on the seeming void, and find 

The rock beneath. 

The Present, the Present is all thou hast 

For thy sure possessing ; 
Like the patriarch's angel hold it fast 

Till it gives its blessing.^ 

Why fear the night? why shrink from Death, 

That phantom wan? 
There is nothing in heaven or earth beneath 

Save God and man. 

Peopling the shadows we turn from him 

And from one another; 
All is spectral and vague and dim 

Save God and our brother ! 

lyike warp and woof all destinies 

Are woven fast, 
Linked in sympathy like the keys 

Of an organ vast.* 



MV SOUL AND I. 233 

Pluck one thread, and the web ye mar ; 

Break but one 
Of a thousand keys, and the paining jar 

Through all will run. 

O restless spirit ! wherefore strain 

Beyond thy sphere? 
Heaven and hell, with their joy and pain, 

Are now and here. 

Back to thyself is measured well 

All thou hast given ; 
Thy neighbor's wrong is thy present hell» 

His bliss, thy heaven. 

And in life, in death, in dark and light, 

All are in God's care : 
Sound the black abyss, pierce the deep of night, 

And he is there ! 

All which is real now remaineth. 

And fadeth never : 
The hand which upholds it now sustaineth 

The soul forever. 

lycaning on him, make with reverent meekness 

His own thy will. 
And with strength from him shall thy utter weak- 
ness 

Life's task fulfill ; 

And that cloud itself, which now before thee 

Lies dark in view, 
Shall with beams of light from the inner glory 

Be stricken through. 



234 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 

And like meadow mist through autumn's dawn 

Uprolling thin, 
Its thickest folds when about thee drawn 

I<et sunlight in. 

Then of what is to be, and of what is done, 

Why queriest thou? 
The past and the time to be are one. 

And both are NOW. 







.^, 




SA^IA/vvjl/ V'C .^^^-''--^ 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 



The poetry of Longfellow furnishes a most signal proof of 
the benefits conferred by poets upon mankind. It is a gospel of 
good-will set to music* It has carried sweetness and light to 
thousands of homes. It is blended with our holiest affections 
and immortal hopes. 

— F. H. Undej'-wood. 
236 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 

(1807=1882.) 

Hknry Wadsworth IvOngfeIvLOW, the most popu- 
lar of American poets, was born in Portland, Me., Feb- 
ruary 2-], 1807, and died in Cambridge, Mass., March 
24, 1882. In 1825 he was graduated from Bowdoin Col- 
lege, and was immediately offered the professorship of 
Modern I^anguages in his Alma Mater. Three years 
were spent in Kurope, traveling and studying, and in 
1829 he entered upon his labors. In 1835 he resigned his 
professorship at Bowdoin to accept the chair of Belles- 
lettres and Modern Languages at Harvard College, pre- 
paring himself for his new position by a preliminary 
year of European travel and study. He remained at 
Harvard until 1854, when he gave up his pedagogic 
work in order to devote himself exclusively to writing. 
The remaining years of his life were spent at his 
home in Cambridge. His was almost an ideal poetic 
existence, and his writings to a great extent reflect the 
conditions of his life. They are mild, serene, benign. 
Among his best known poems are, "Hiawatha," "Evan- 
geline," " The Courtship of Miles Standish," " Tales of 
a Wayside Inn," and a number or briefer efforts. His 
prose works, " H5'-perion " and " Outre Mer," have been 
widely read. 

See the "Life of Henr\' Wadsworth Longfellow," bj^ 
Samuel Longfellow, Boston, 1886. 

237 



238 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 



THE LEGEND BEAUTIFUL. 

This is the Theologian's Tale in the "Tales of a Way- 
side Inn." 

" Hadst thou Stayed, I must have fled!" 
That is what the Vision said. 

In his chamber all alone, 
Kneeling on the floor of stone, 
Prayed the Monk in deep contrition 
For his sins of indecision. 
Prayed for greater self-denial 
In temptation and in trial; 
It was noonday by the dial, 
And the Monk was all alone. 

Suddenly, as if it lightened. 
An unwonted splendor brightened 
All within him and without him 
In that narrow cell of stone; 
And he saw the Blessed Vision 
Of our Lord, with light Elysian^ 
lyike a vesture wrapped about him, 
Like a garment round him thrown. 

Not as crucified and slain, 

Not in agonies of pain. 

Not with bleeding hands and feet, 

Did the Monk his Master see ; 

But as in the village street 

In the house or harvest-field, 

Halt and lame and blind he healed, 



THE LEGEND BEAUTIFUL. 239 

When he walked in Galilee. 

In an attitude imploring, 

Hands upon his bosom crossed, 

Wondering, worshiping, adoring. 

Knelt the Monk in rapture lost. 

Lord, he thought, in heaven that reignest, 

Who am I, that thus thou deignest 

To reveal thyself to me ? 

Who am I, that from the center 

Of thy glory thou shouldst enter 

This poor cell, my guest to be ? 

Then amid his exaltation, 
Loud the convent bell appalling. 
From its belfr}- calling, calling, 
Rang through court and corridor 
With persistent iteration 
He had never heard before. 
It was now the appointed hour 
When alike in shine or shower, 
Winter's cold or summer's heat, 
To the convent portals came 
All the blind and halt and lame, 
All the beggars of the street. 
For their daily dole of food 
Dealt them b}' the brotherhood, 
And their almoner was he 
Who, upon his bended knee, 
Rapt in silent ecstas}^ 
Of divinest self-surrender. 
Saw the Vision and the Splendor. 



240 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 

Deep distress and hesitation 
Mingled with his adoration ; 
Should he go or should he stay ? 
Should he leave the poor to wait 
Hungry at the convent gate, 
Till the Vision passed away? 
Should he slight his radiant guest, 
Slight this visitant celestial, 
For a crowd of ragged, bestial 
Beggars at the convent gate ? 
Would the Vision there remain ? 
Would the Vision come again ? 
Then a voice within his breast 
Whispered, audible and clear 
As if to the outward ear : 
" Do thy duty ; that is best ; 
Leave unto thy I^ord the rest!" 

Straightway to his feet he started, 
And with longing look intent 
On the Blessed Vision bent, 
Slowly from his cell departed, 
Slowly on his errand went. 

At the gate the poor were waiting, 
Ivooking through the iron grating, 
With that terror in the e3^e 
That is only seen in those 
Who amid their wants and woes 
Hear the sound of doors that close, 
And of feet that pass them by ; 



THE LEGEND BEAUTIFUL. 24 1 

-Grown familiar with, disfavor, 
Grown familiar with, the savor 
Of the bread by which men die ! 
But to-day, the}' knew not whj^ 
lyike the gate of Paradise 
Seemed the convent gate to rise, 
I^ike a sacrament divine 
Seemed to them the bread and wine . 
In his heart the Monk was praying, 
Thinking of the homeless poor, 
What they suffer and endure ; 
What we see not, what we see ; 
And the inward- voice was sajdng : 
"Whatsoever thing thou doest 
To the least of mine and lowest, 
That thou doest unto me !"^ 

Unto me ! but had the Vision 
Come to him in beggar's clothing, 
Come a mendicant imploring, 
Would he then have knelt adoring. 
Or have listened with derision. 
And have turned away with loathing? 

Thus his conscience put the question, 
Full of troublesome suggestion. 
As at length, with hurried pace. 
Towards his cell he turned his face, 
And beheld the convent bright 
With a supernatural light, 
I,ike a luminous cloud expanding 
16 



242 HENRY WADSV/ORTH LONGFELLOW. 

Over floor and wall and ceiling. 

But lie paused with awe-struck feeling 

At the threshold of his door, 

For the Vision still was standing 

As he left it there before, 

When the convent bell appalling, 

From its belfry calling, calling, 

Summoned him to feed the poor. 

Through the long hour intervening 

It had waited his return, 

And he felt his bosom burn. 

Comprehending all the meaning, 

When the Blessed Vision said, 

"Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled !" 

THE BLIGHT OF WORLDLINESS. 

The followiug selection is from " Morituri Salutamus," ^ 
a poem written for the fiftieth anniversary of the class of 
1825, in Bowdoin College. For some reason the poet was 
excessively timid about reading in public ; and when he 
found that he could read this production from behind a 
pulpit, he said with an expression of relief, "Let me cover 
myself as much as possible; I wish it might be entirely." 



In mediaeval Rome, I know not where, 

There stood an image with its arm in air, 

And OH its lifted finger, shining clear, 

A golden ring with the device, " Strike here !" 

Greatly the people wondered, though none guessed 

The meaning that these words but half expressed, 



\ 



THE BLIGHT OF WORLDLINESS, 243 

Until a learned clerk, who at noonday 

With downcast e3'es was passing on his way, 

Paused, and observed the spot, and marked it well, 

Whereon the shadow of the finger fell ; 

And, coming back at midnight, delved, and found 

A secret stairway leading underground. 

Down this he passed into a spacious hall, 

lyit by a flaming jewel on the w^all ; 

And opposite, in threatening attitude, 

With bow and shaft a brazen statue stood. 

Upon its forehead, like a coronet, 

Were these mysterious words of menace set : 

"That which I am, I am; my fatal aim 

None can escape, not even 3'ou luminous flame !" 

Midway the hall was a fair table placed^^ 

With cloth of gold, and golden cups enchased 

With rubies, and the plates and knives were gold. 

And gold the bread and viands manifold. 

Around it, silent, motionless, and sad, 

Were seated gallant knights in armor clad, 

And ladies beautiful with plume and zone ; 

But they were stone, their hearts within were stone; 

And the vast hall was filled in ever}" part 

With silent crowds, stony in face and heart. 

Long at the scene, bewildered and amazed, 
The trembling clerk in speechless wonder gazed; 
Then from the table, b}- his greed made bold. 
He seized a goblet and a knife of gold, 



244 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 

And suddenly from their seats the guests upsprang, 
The vaulted ceiling with loud clamors rang, 
The archer sped his arrow, at their call, 
Shattering the lambent jewel on the wall, 
And all was dark around and overhead ; — 
Stark on the floor the luckless clerk lay dead ! 

The writer of this legend then records 
Its ghostly application in these words : 
The image is the Adversary old, 
Whose beckoning finger points to realms of gold ; 
Our lusts and passions are the downward stair 
That leads the soul from a diviner air; 
The archer, Death ; the flaming jewel, Life : 
Terrestrial goods, the goblet and the knife ; 
The knights and ladies, all whose flesh and bone 
By avarice have been hardened into stone ; 
The clerk, the scholar whom the love of pelf 
Tempts from his books and from his nobler self. 

The scholar and the world ! The endless strife, 

The discord in the harmonies of life ! 

The love of learning, the sequestered nooks. 

And all the sweet serenity of 'books; 

The market-place, the eager love of gain, 

Whose aim is vanity, and whose end is pain ! 



THE LADDER OF ST. AUGUSTINE. 245 



THE LADDER OF ST. AUGUSTINE. 

Saint Augustine ! well hast thou said, 
That of our vices we can frame 

A ladder,^ if we will but tread 

Beneath our feet each deed of shame ! 

All common things, each day's events, 
That with the hour begin and end. 

Our pleasures and our discontents, 

Are rounds by which we may ascend. 

The low desire, the base design, 

That makes another's virtues less; 

The revel of the ruddy wine. 
And all occasions of excess ; 

The longing for ignoble things; 

The strife for triumph more than truth 
The hardening of the heart, that brings 

Irreverence for the dreams of youth ; 

All thoughts of ill ; all evil deeds. 

That have their root in thoughts of ill; 

Whatever hinders or impedes 

The action of the nobler will; — 

All these must first be trampled down 
Beneath our feet, if we would gain 

In the bright fields of fair renown 
The right of eminent domain. 



246 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 

We have not wings, we can not soar; 

But we have feet to scale and climb 
By slow degrees, by more and more, 

The cloudy summits of our time. 

The. mighty pyramids of stone 

That wedge-like cleave the desert airs, 

When nearer seen, and better known. 
Are but gigantic flights of stairs. 

The distant mountains, that uprear 
Their solid bastions to the skies, 

Are crossed by pathways, that appear 
As we to higher levels rise. 

The heights by great men reached and kept 
Were not attained by sudden flight, 
. But they, while their companions slept, 
Were toiling upward in the night. 

Standing on what too long we bore 

With shoulders bent and downcast eyes, 

We may discern — unseen before — 
A path to higher destinies, 

Nor deem the irrevocable Past 
As wholly wasted, wholly vain, 

If, rising on its wrecks, at last 
To something nobler we attain. 



I 



THE SIFTING OF PETER. 247 



THE SIFTING OF PETER. 

The poem is based upon the well-known incident re- 
corded in Luke xxii, 31, seq.^ in which Peter's fitness as 
under-shepherd is tested by his fidelity in the hour of peril 
from enemies. Peter fell, but repented; and the poem 
seeks to bring home the lesson that a noble nature, though 
it fall, sh^ws its nobility in recovering itself, and, out of its 
experience, gaining a new source of helpfulness in its min- 
istry for others. 

In St. Luke's Gospel we are told 
How Peter in the da^'s of old 

Was sifted ; 
And now, though ages intervene. 
Sin is the same, while time and scene 

Are shifted. 

Satan desires us, great and small, 
x\s wheat to sift us, and we all 

Are tempted ; 
Not one, however rich or great, 
Is by his station or estate 

Exempted. 

No house so safel}^ guarded is 
But he, by some device of his. 

Can enter ; 
No heart hath armor so complete 
But he can pierce with arrow^s fleet 

Its center. 



248 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 

For all at last the cock will crow, 
Who hear the warning voice, but go 

Unheeding, 
Till thrice and more they have denied 
The Man of Sorrows, crucified 

And bleeding. 

One look of that pale, suffering face 
Will make us feel the deep disgrace 

Of weakness ; 
We shall be sifted till the strength 
Of self-conceit be changed at length 

To meekness. 

Wounds of the soul, though healed, will ache ; 
The reddening scars remain, and make 

Confession ; 
Lost innocence returns no more ; 
We are not what we were before 

Transgression. 

But noble souls, through dust and heat, 
Rise from disaster and defeat 

The .stronger, 
And conscious still of the divine 
Within them, lie on earth supine 

No longer. 



k 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 



Faith and joy are the ascensive forces of his song. At times 
he places you 

So nigh to the ♦ ♦ • heart of God, 
You ahnost seem to feel it beat 
Down from the sunshine and up from the sod. 
— Clarence Stedman. 
250 



I 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 

(1819=1891.) 

No American man of letters has combined to so 
great an extent the qualities of poet, critic, essayist, 
and diplomatist as James Russell lyowell. In each of 
these fields he exerted his strength, and in each he 
proved eminent. Born in Cambridge, Mass., February 
22, 1 8 19, he entered Harvard College at an early age, 
being graduated in 1838. In 1855 he was elected to 
the chair of Belles-lettres in his Alma Mater, and after 
two years spent in travel, took up his professional 
work. But his position did not seem to hinder his lit- 
erary labors. From 1857 to 1862 he was editor of the 
Atlantic Monthly, and from 1863 to 1872, of the North 
American Review. His diplomatic services were ren- 
dered during the administrations of Presidents Haj^es, 
Garfield, and Arthur, when he acted, first as Minister to 
Spain, then as Minister to England. He died at his 
home in Cambridge, August 12, 1891. Of his poems, 
" The Vision of Sir Launfal," " Commemoration Ode," 
and "The Biglow Papers " are perhaps best known. 
His prose writings are distinguished by a noble style, 
and abound in delicate fancies. 

See " The Life and Letters of James Russell Lowell," 
edited by Charles Kliot Norton. 

251 



252 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 

THE" VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 

This is Lowell's rendering of the search for the Holy- 
Grail. *' The plot," he says, "is my own, and, to serve its 
purposes, I have enlarged the circle of competition in 
search of the miraculous cup in such a manner as to in- 
clude, not only other persons than the heroes of the Round 
Table, but also a period of time subsequent to the supposed 
date of King Arthur's reign." 

PRBIvUDB TO PART FIRST. 
Over his keys the musing organist, 

Beginning doubtfully and far away, 
First lets his fingers wander as they list. 

And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay : 
Then, as the touch of his loved instrument 

Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme, 
First guessed by faint auroral flashes sent 

Along the wavering vista of his dream. 



Not only around our infancy 
Doth heaven with all its splendors lie ;^ 
Daily, with souls that cringe and plot, 
We Sinais climb^ and know it not. 

Over our manhood bend the skies ; 

Against our fallen and traitor lives 
The great winds utter prophecies ; 

With our faint hearts the mountain strives ; 
Its arms outstretched, the druid wood 

Waits with its benedicite;^ 
And to our age's drowsy blood 

Still shouts the inspiring sea. 



THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 253 

Karth gets its price for what Earth gives us ; 

The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in, 
The priest has his fee who comes and shrives us, 

We bargain for the graves w^e lie in; 
At the devil's booth are all things sold, 
Bach ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold ; 

For a cap and bells our lives we pay, 
Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's tasking: 

'Tis heaven alone that is given away, 
'Tis only God may be had for the asking; 
No price is set on the lavish summer; 
June may be had by the poorest comer. 

And what is so rare as a da}- in June ? 

Then, if ever, come perfect da5's ; 
Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune, 

And over it softly her warm ear la3's: 
Whether we look, or whether we listen. 
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten ; 
Ever}' clod feels a stir of might, 

An instinct within it that reaches and towers, 
And, groping blindly above it for light. 

Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers ; 
The flush of life may well be seen 

Thrilling back over hills and valle5^s; 
The cowslip startles in meadows green, 

The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, 
And there 's never a leaf nor a blade too mean 

To be some happ}- creature's palace ; 
The little bird sits at his door in the sun, 

Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, 



254 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 

And lets his illumined being o'errun 

With the deluge of summer it receives; 
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, 
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and 

sings ; 
He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest, — 
In the nice^ ear of Nature which song is the best? 

Now is the high-tide of the year. 

And whatever of life hath ebbed away 
Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer, 

Into every bare inlet and creek and bay ; 
Now the heart is so full that a drop' overfills it. 
We are happy now because God wills it ; 
No matter how barren the past may have been, 
'T is enough for us now that the leaves are green ; 
We sit in the warm shade and feel right well 
How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell ; 
We may shut our eyes, but we can not help knowing 
That skies are clear and grass is growing ; 
The breeze comes whispering in our ear, 
That dandelions are blossoming near, 

That maize has sprouted, that streams are 
flowing, 
That the river is bluer than the sky. 
That the robin is plastering his house hard by ; 
And if the breeze kept the good news back, 
For other couriers we should not lack ; 

We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing, — 
And hark ! how clear bold chanticleer. 
Warmed with the new wine of the year, 

Tells all in his lusty crowing ! 



THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 255 

Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how; 
Kver3^thing is happy now, 

Everything is upward striving ; 
'T is as easy now for the heart to be true 
As for grass to be green or skies to be bhie, — 

'T is the natural wa}^ of Hving ; 
Who knows whither the clouds have fled? 

In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake; 
And the e3'es forget the tears they have shed, 

The heart forgets its sorrow^ and ache ; 
The soul partakes the season's 3^outh, 

And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe 
lyie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth, 

lyike burnt-out craters healed with snow. 
What wonder if Sir Launfal now 
Remembered the keeping of his vow? 



PART FIRST. 



" My golden spurs now bring to me, 
And bring to me ni}- richest mail. 

For to-morrow I go over land and sea 
In search of the Holy Grail ; 

Shall never a bed for me be spread, 

Nor shall a pillow be under my head. 

Till I begin my vow to keep ; 

Here on the rushes^ will I sleep. 

And perchance there may come a vision true 

Kre day create the world anew." 



256 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 

Slowly Sir lyaunfal's eyes grew dim, 
Slumber fell like a cloud on him, 
And into his soul the vision flew. 

II. 
The crows flapped over by twos and threes, 
In the pool drowsed the cattle up to their knees, 

The little birds sang as if it w^ere 

The one day of summer in all the year. 
And the very leaves seemed to sing on the trees : 
The castle alone in the landscape lay 
Like an outpost of winter, dull and gray : 
'T was the proudest hall in the North Countree, 
And never its gates might opened be. 
Save to lord or lady of high degree ; 
Summer besieged it on every side, 
But the churlish stone her assaults defied ; 
She could not scale the chilly wall, 
Though around it for leagues her pavilions tall 
Stretched left and right, 
Over the hills and out of sight : 

Green and broad was every tent, 

And out of each a murmur went 
Till the breeze fell off at night. 

III. 
The drawbridge dropped with a surly clang, 
And through the dark arch a charger sprang, 
Bearing Sir Launfal, the maiden^ knight, 
In his gilded mail, that flamed so bright 
It seemed the dark castle had gathered all 
Those shafts the fierce sun had shot over its wall 



THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 257 

In his siege of three hundred summers long, 
And, binding them all in one blazing sheaf, 

Had cast them forth : so, young and strong. 
And lightsome as a locust-leaf, 
Sir Launfal flashed forth in his maiden mail, 
To seek in all climes for the Holy Grail. 

IV. 

It was morning on hill and stream and tree. 
And morning in the young knight's heart ; 

Only the castle moodily 

Rebuffed the gifts of the sunshine free, 
And gloomed by itself apart ; 

The season brimmed all other things up 

Full as the rain fills the pitcher-plant's cup. 

V. 

As Sir L^aunfal made morn^ through the darksome 
gate. 

He was 'ware of a leper, crouched by the same; 
Who begged with his hand and moaned as he sate ; 

And a loathing over Sir I^aunfal came ; 
The sunshine went out of his soul with a thrill. 

The flesh 'neath his armor 'gan^ shrink and 
crawl, 
And midway its leap his heart stood still 

lyike a frozen waterfall ; 
For this man, so foul and bent of stature. 
Rasped harshly against his dainty nature. 
And seemed the one blot on the summer morn,- 
So he tossed him a piece of gold in scorn. 

17 



258 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 

VI. 

The leper raised not the gold from the dust : 
"Better to me the poor man's crust, 
Better the blessing of the poor, 
Though I turn me empty from his door; 
That is no true alms which the hand can hold ; 
He gives only the worthless gold 

Who gives from a sense of duty ; 
But he who gives a slender mite,^ 
And gives to that which is out of sight. 

That thread of the all-sustaining Beauty 
Which runs through all and doth all unite, — 
The hand can not clasp the whole of his alms, 
The heart outstretches its eager palms, 
For a god goes with it and makes it store 
To the soul that was starving in darkness before." 

PRBlvUDE TO PART SECOND. 

Down swept the chill wind from the mountain peak 
From the snow five thousand summers old; 

On open wold^^ and hill-top bleak 
It had gathered all the cold, 

And whirled it like sleet on the wanderer's cheek ; 

It carried a shiver everywhere 

From the unleafed boughs and pastures bare ; 

The little brook heard it, and built a roof 

'Neath which he could house him, winter-proof; 

All night by the white stars' frosty gleams 

He groined his arches and matched his beams ; 



THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 259 

Slender and clear were his crystal spars 

As the lashes of light that trim the stars ; 

He sculptured every summer delight 

In his halls and chambers out of sight; 

Sometimes his tinkling waters slipt 

Down through a frost-leaved forest-crypt, 

lyong, sparkling aisles of steel-stemmed trees 

Bending to counterfeit a breeze ; 

Sometimes the roof no fretwork knew 

But silvery mosses that downward grew; 

Sometimes it was carved in sharp relief 

With quaint arabesques of ice-fern leaf; 

Sometimes it was simpl}- smooth and clear 

For the gladness of heaven to shine through, and 

here 
He had caught the nodding bulrush-tops 
And hung them thickl}^ with diamond drops. 
That crystalled the beams of moon and sun, 
And made a star of ever}^ one : 
No mortal builder's most rare device 
Could match this winter-palace of ice ; 
'Twas as if every image that mirrored la}- 
In his depths serene through the summer da}^. 
Each fleeting shadow of earth and sk}', 

Lest the happy model should be lost, 
Had been mimicked in fair}^ masonr}^ 

By the elfin builders of the frost. 
Within the hall are song and laughter, 

The cheeks of Christmas glow red and joli}^ 
And sprouting is ever}^ corbeP^ and rafter 

With lightsome green of ivy and holly ; 



26o JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 

Through the deep gulf of the chimney wide 
Wallows the Yule-log's roaring tide ; 
The broad flame-pennons droop and flap 

And belly and tug as a flag in the wind ; 
Like a locust shrills the imprisoned sap, 

Hunted to death in its galleries blind ; 
And swift little troops of silent sparks, 

Now pausing, now scattering away as in fear. 
Go threading the soot-forest's tangled darks 

Like herds of startled deer. 

But the wind without was eager and sharp. 
Of Sir lyaunfal's gray hair it makes a harp, 
And rattles and wrings 
The icy strings, 
Singing, in dreary monotone, 
A Christmas carol of its own. 
Whose burden still, as he might guess. 
Was — "Shelterless, shelterless, shelterless !" 
The voice of the seneschaP^ flared like a torch 
As he shouted the wanderer away from the porch, 
And he sat in the gateway and saw all night 
The great hall-fire, so cheery and bold. 
Through the window-slits of the castle old, 
Build out its piers of ruddy light 
Against the drift of the cold. 

PART SECOND. 
I. 
ThkrK was never a leaf on bush or tree, 
The bare boughs rattled shudderingly ; 



THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 26 1 

The river was dumb and could not speak, 

For the weaver Winter its shroud had spun ; 

A single crow on the tree-top bleak 

From his shining feathers shed off the cold sun ; 

Again it was morning, but shrunk and cold, 

As if her veins were sapless and old, 

And she rose up decrepitly 

For a last dim look at earth and sea. 

II. 

Sir Launfal turned from his own hard gate, 

For another heir in his earldom sate ; 

An old, bent man, worn out and frail, 

He came back from seeking the H0I3" Grail ;^^ 

lyittle he recked of his earldom's loss, 

No more on his surcoat was blazoned the cross, 

But deep in his soul the sign he wore, 

The badge of the suffering and the poor. 

III. 

Sir Launfal's raiment thin and spare 

Was idle mail 'gainst the barbed air. 

For it was just at the Christmas time ; 

So he mused, as he sat, of a sunnier clime. 

And sought for a shelter from cold and snow 

In the light and warmth of long-ago; 

He sees the snake-like caravan crawl 

O'er the edge of the desert, black and small, 

Then nearer and nearer, till, one by one, 

He can count the camels in the sun, 



262 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 

As over the red-hot sands they pass 

To where, in its slender necklace of grass, 

The little spring laughed and leapt in the shade, 

And with its own self like an infant played, 

And waved its signal of palms. 

TV. 

"For Christ's sweet sake, I beg an alms;" — 
The happy camels may reach the spring. 
But Sir lyaunfal sees only the grewsome thing. 
The leper, lank as the rain-blanched bone. 
That cowers beside him, a thing as lone 
And white as the ice-isles of Northern seas 
In the desolate horror of his disease. 

V. 
And Sir Launfal said : "I behold in thee 
An image of Him who died on the tree ;^* 
Thou also hast had thy crown of thorns, — 
Thou also hast had the world's buffets and scorns, — 
And to thy life were not denied 
The wounds in the hands and feet and side: 
Mild Mary's Son, acknowledge me ; 
Behold, through him, I give to thee !" 

VI. 

Then the soul of the leper stood up in his eyes 
And looked at Sir I^aunfal, and straightway he 

Remembered in what a haughtier guise 
He had flung an alms to leprosie, 

When he girt his young life up in gilded mail 

And set forth in search of the Holy Grail. 



THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 263 

The heart within him was ashes and dust ;^^ 

He parted in twain his single crust, 

He broke the ice on the streamlet's brink, 

And gave the leper to eat and drink, 

'T was a moldy crust of coarse brown bread, 

'Twas water out of a .wooden bowl, — 
Yet with fine wheaten bread was the leper fed. 

And 'twas red wine he drank with his thirsty 
soul. 

VII. 

As Sir Launfal mused with a downcast face, 

A light shone round about the place ; 

The leper no longer crouched at his side. 

But stood before him glorified, 

Shining and tall and fair and straight 

As the pillar that stood by the Beautiful Gate, — 

Himself the Gate whereby men can 

Enter the temple of God in Man.^^ 

VIII. 
His words were shed softer than leaves from the 

pine. 
And they fell on Sir I^aunfal as snows on the brine. 
That mingle their softness and quiet in one 
With the shaggy unrest they float down upon; 
And the voice that was softer than silence said : 
" Lo it is I, be not afraid! 
In many climes, without avail, 
Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy Grail ; 
Behold, it is here, — this cup which thou 
Didst fill at the streamlet for me but now ; 



264 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL, 

This crust is my body broken for thee, 
This water his blood that died on the tree ; 
The Holy Supper is kept, indeed, 
In whatso we share with another's need; 
Not what we give, but what we share, 
For the gift without the giver is bare ; 
Who gives himself with his alms feeds three, 
Himself, his hungering neighbor, and me." 

IX. 

Sir lyaunfal awoke as from a s wound : 
" The Grail in my castle here is found! 
Hang my idle armor up on the wall. 
Let it be the vSpider's banquet-hall ; 
He must be fenced with stronger mail 
Who would seek and find the Holy Grail." 

X. 

The castle gate stands open now, 

And the wanderer is welcome to the hall 

As the hangbird is to the elm-tree bough ; 
No longer scowl the turrets tall, 

The Summer's long siege at last is o'er ; 

When the first poor outcast went in at the door, 

She entered with him in disguise, 

And mastered the fortress by surprise ; 

There is no spot she loves so well on ground, 

She lingers and smiles there the whole year round; 

The meanest serf on Sir Launfal's land 

Has hall and bower at his command ; 

And there 's no poor man in the North Countree 

But is lord of the earldom as much as he. 



A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN. 265 



A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN. 

This poem is founded upon an incident in the life of 
Oliver Cromwell. The story is that in the year 1637 Crom- 
well and his cousin, John Hampden, being discouraged by 
the failure of their political efforts, decided to emigrate to 
America. The vessel in which they had engaged passage 
was forbidden to sail by an order in council. However, 
this story is without adequate historical foundation. In 
the poem, Cromwell and Hampden are pictured standing 
on the wharf, considering the advisability of sailing in de- 
fiance of the king's order. Hampden suggests that they 
"seek out that savage clime where men as yet are free." 
Cromwell replies at length, declining to leave England 
for the reasons set forth. The poem is here somewhat 
abridged. 

"O CromweIvIv, we are fallen on evil times! 
There was a day when England had wide room 
For honest men as well as foolish kings : 
But now the uneasy stomach of the time 
Turns sqtieamish at them both. Therefore let us 
Seek out that savage clime, ^ where men as yet 
Are free:" 

So spake he, and meantime the other .stood 
With wide gray eyes still reading the blank air, 
As if upon the sky's blue wall he saw 
Some mystic sentence, written by a hand, 
Such as of old made pale the Assyrian king,^ 
Girt with his satraps in the blazing feast. 



266 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 

" Hampden ! a moment since, my purpose was 
To fly with thee, — for I will call it flight, 
Nor flatter it with any smoother name, — 
But something in me bids me not to go ; 
And I am one, thou knowest, who unmoved 
By what the weak deem omens, yet give heed 
And reverence due to whatsoe'er my soul 
Whispers of warning to the inner ear. 
Moreover, as I know that God brings round 
His purposes in ways undreamed by us. 
And makes the wicked but his instruments 
To hasten their own swift and sudden fall, 
I see the beauty of his providence 
In the King's order : blind, he will not let 
His doom part from him, but must bid it stay. . . . 
Why should we fly ? Nay, why not rather stay 
And rear again our Zion's crumbled walls. 
Not, as of old the walls of Thebes were built,^ 
By minstrel twanging, but, if need should be, 
With the more potent music of our swords ? 
Think'st thou that score of men beyond the sea 
Claim more God's care than all of England here? 
No : when he moves his arm, it is to aid 
Whole peoples. 

Believe me, 't is the mass of men he loves ; 
And, where there is most sorrow and most want, 
Where the high heart of man is trodden down 
The most, 't is not because he hides his face 
From them in wrath, as purblind teachers prate: 
Not so : there most is he, for there is he'' 
Most needed. Men who seek for Fate abroad 



A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN 267 

Are not so near His heart as they who dare 

Frankly to face. her where she faces them, 

On their own threshold, where their souls are strong 

To grapple with and throw her. 

No, Hampden ! they have half-way conquered Fate 

Who go half-way to meet her, — as will I. 

Freedom hath yet a work for me to do ; 

So speaks that inward voice which never yet 

Spake falsely, when it urged the spirit on 

To noble deeds for countr}^ and mankind. 

And, for success, I ask no more than this, — 

To bear unflinching witness to the truth. 

All true whole men succeed ; for what is worth 

Success's name, unless it be the thought. 

The inward surety, to have carried out 

A noble purpose to a noble end. 

Although it be the gallows or the block ? 

'T is only Falsehood that doth ever need 

These outward shows of gain to bolster her. 

By it we prove the weaker with our swords ; 

Truth only needs to be for once spoke out, 

And there's such music in her, such strange rhythm, 

As makes men's memories her joj^ous slaves. 

And clings around the soul, as the sky clings 

Round the mute earth, forever beautiful. 

And, if o'erclouded, only to burst forth 

More all-embracingl}^ divine and clear : 

Get but the truth once uttered, and 'tis like 

A star new-born, that drops into its place. 

And which, once circling in its placid round 

Not all the tumult of the earth can shake. 



268 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.. 

'' New times demand new measures and new men 
The world advances, and in time outgrows 
The laws that in our fathers' day were best ; 
And, doubtless, after us, some purer scheme 
Will be shaped out by wiser men than we, 
Made wiser by the stead}^ growth of truth. . . 
No man is born into the world whose work 
Is not born with him ; there is always work, 
And tools to work withal, for those who will ; 
And blessed are the horny hands of toil ! 
The busy world shoves angrily aside 
The man who stands with arms akimbo set. 
Until occasion tells him what to do ; 
And he who waits to have his task marked out 
Shall die and leave his errand unfulfilled. 
The time is ripe, and rotten-ripe, for change ; . . 
Then let it come : I have no dread of what 
Is called for by the instinct of mankind ; 
Nor think I that God's world will fall apart 
Because we tear a parchment more or less. 
Truth is eternal, but her effluence. 
With endless change, is fitted to the hour ; 
Her mirror is turned forward to reflect 
The promise of the future, not the past. 
He who would win the name of truly great 
Must understand his own age and the next. 
And make the present ready to fulfill 
Its prophecy, and with the future merge 
Gently and peacefully, as wave with wave. 
The future works out great men's purposes ; 
The present is enough for common souls. . . 



A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN. 269 

Let US Speak plain : there is more force in names^ 
Than most men dream of; and a lie may keep 
Its throne a whole age longer, if it skulk 
Behind the shield of some fair-seeming name. 
Let us call tyrants tyrants, and maintain 
That only freedom comes by grace of God, 
And all that comes not by his grace must fall ; 
For men in earnest have no time to waste 
In patching fig-leaves for the naked truth. 

" I will have one more grapple with the man 
Charles Stuart : . . . 

I, perchance, 
Am one raised up by the Almighty arm 
To witness some great truth to all the world. 
Souls destined to o'erleap the vulgar lot, 
And mould the world unto the scheme of God, 
Have a fore-consciousness of their high doom. 
As men are known to shiver at the heart 
When the cold shadow of some coming ill 
Creeps slowly o'er their spirits unawares. 
Hath Good less power of prophecy than 111 ? 
How else could men whom God hath called to sway 
Earth's rudder, and to steer the bark of Truth, 
Beating against the tempest toward her port, 
Bear all the mean and buzzing grievances, 
The petty mart3^rdoms, wherewith Sin strives 
To weary out the tethered hope of Faith? . . . 
My God ! when I read o'er the bitter lives 
Of men whose eager hearts were quite too great 
To beat beneath the cramped mode of the day. 



270 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 

And see them mocked at by the world they 

love, — ... 
When I see this, spite of my faith in God, 
I marvel how their hearts bear up so long; 
Nor could they but for this same prophec}^ 
This inward feeling of the glorious end. 

*' Deem me not fond ;^ but in my warmer youth, 

Kre my heart's bloom was soiled and brushed away, 

I had great dreams of mighty things to come; 

Of conquest, whether by the sword or pen 

I knew not; but some conquest I would have, 

Or else swift death : now wiser grown in years, 

I find youth's dreams are but the flutterings 

Of those strong winds whereon the soul shall soar 

In aftertime to win a starry throne ; 

And so I cherish them, for they were lots, 

Which I, a boy, cast in the helm of Fate. 

Now will I draw them, since a man's right hand, 

A right hand guided by an earnest soul. 

With a true instinct, takes the golden prize 

From out a thousand blanks. What men call luck 

Is the prerogative of valiant souls, 

The fealty life pays its rightful kings. 

The helm is shaking now, and I will stay 

To pluck my lot forth; it were sin to flee !" 

So they two turned together ; one to die, 
Fighting for freedom on the bloody field ;^ 
The other, far more happy, to become 
A name earth wears forever next her heart ; 



THE SEARCH. 27 1 

One of the few that have a right to rank 
With the true Makers : for his spirit wrought 
Order from Chaos; proved that right divine 
Dwelt only in the excellence of truth; 
And far within old Darkness' hostile lines 
Advanced and pitched the shining tents of I/ight. 

THE SEARCH. 

The; central idea of this poem is identical with the 
main thought of "A Parable," and of "The Vision of Sir 
lyaunfal." Not in Nature, not in Art, but in Humanity we 
must look for Christ. 

I WENT to seek for Christ, 
And Nature seemed so fair 
That first the woods and fields my youth enticed, 
And I was sure to find him there : 
The temple I forsook, 
And to the solitude 
Allegiance paid ; but Winter came and shook 

The crown and purple from my wood ; 
His snows, like desert sands, with scornful drift. 
Besieged the columned aisle and palace-gate; 
My Thebes,^ cut deep with many a solemn rift. 

But epitaphed her own sepulchred state : 
Then I remembered whom I went to seek. 
And blessed blunt Winter for his counsel bleak. 

Back to the world I turned, 
For Christ, I said, is King; 
So the cramped alley and the hut I spurned. 
As far beneath his sojourning : 



272 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 

Mid power and wealth I sought, 
But found no trace of him, 
And all the costly offerings I had brought 

With sudden rust and mould grew dim : 
I found his tomb, indeed, where, by their laws, 

All must on stated days themselves imprison, 
Mocking with bread a dead creed's grinning jaws, 

Witless^ how long the life had thence arisen ; 
Due sacrifice to this they set apart. 
Prizing it more than Christ's own living heart. 

So from my feet the dust 
Of the proud World I shook ; 
Then came dear Love and shared with me his crust, 
And half my sorrow's burden took. 
After the World's soft bed. 
Its rich and dainty fare, 
lyike down seemed Love's coarse pillow to my 
head. 
His cheap food seemed as manna rare; 
Fresh-trodden prints of bare and bleeding feet. 
Turned to the heedless city whence I came. 
Hard by I saw, and springs of worship sweet 

Gushed from liiy cleft heart smitten by the same ; 
lyove looked me in the face and spake no words. 
But straight I knew those footprints were the 
Lord's. 

I followed where they led. 
And in a hovel rude. 
With naught to fence the weather from his head. 
The King I sought for meekly stood ; 



A PARABLE, 273 

A naked, hungry child 
Clung- round his gracious knee, 
And a poor hunted slave looked up and smiled 

To bless the smile that set him free ; 
New miracles I saw his presence do, — 

No more I knew the hovel bare and poor, 
The gathered chips into a woodpile grew, 

The broken morsel swelled to goodl}^ store ; 
I knelt and wept : my Christ no more I seek, 
His throne is with the outcast and the weak. 



A PARABLE. 

The poem seeks to enforce a double lesson — first, that 
Pharisaism is a modern as well as an ancient evil; and, sec- 
ond, that the highest form of faith in God's sight is the 
faith that works by love in the interest of the poor and 
forlorn. 

Said Christ our Lord, " I will go and see 
How the men, my brethren, believe in me." 
He passed not again through the gate of birth, 
But made himself known to the children of earth. 

Then said the chief priests, and rulers, and kings, 
"Behold, now, the Giver of all good things ! 
Go to, let us welcome with pomp and state^ 
Him who alone is mighty and great." 

With carpets of gold the ground they spread 
Wherever the Son of Man should tread, 
And in palace-chambers lofty and rare 
They lodged him, and served him with kingly fare. 

18 



274 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 

Great organs surged through arches dim 
Their jubilant floods in praise of him ; 
And in church, and palace, and judgment-hall, 
He saw his own image high over all.^ 

But still, wherever his steps they led. 
The lyord in sorrow bent down his head. 
And from under the heavy foundation-stones, 
The son of Mary heard bitter groans. 

And in church, and palace, and judgment-hall, 
He marked great fissures that rent the wall, 
And opened wider and yet more wide 
As the living foundation heaved and sighed. 

" Have ye founded your thrones and altars, then. 
On the bodies and souls of living men? 
And think ye that building shall endure, 
Which shelters the noble and crushes the poor ? 

" With gates of silver and bars of gold 

Ye have fenced my sheep from their Father's fold ; 

I have heard the dropping of their tears 

In heaven these eighteen hundred years." 

"O Lord and Master, not ours the guilt, 
We build but as our fathers built; 
Behold thine images, how they stand, 
Sovereign and sole, through all our land. 



A PARABLE, 275 

" Our task is hard, — with sword and flame 
To hold thy earth forever the same, 
And with sharp crooks of steel to keep 
Still, as thou leftest them, thy sheep. "^ 

Then Christ sought out an artisan, 
A low-browned, stunted, haggard man, 
And a motherless girl, w^hose fingers thin 
Pushed from her faintl}' want and sin. 

These set he in the midst of them. 
And as they drew back their garment-hem, 
For fear of defilement, " Lo, here," said he, 
"The images ye have made of me!""^ 



I 



NOTES 



JOHN MILTON. 

COMUS. 

1. Pinfold. A pound or place where strayed animals 
are confined. 

2. Comp. Job xiv, 14. "All the days of my appointed 
time will I wait, till my change come." 

3. "Ambrosia" was the food of the gods, hence here in 
the general sense of heavenly ; " weed " which, with us, is 
usually connected with mourning, has here the older sense 
of clothing in general. 

4. Strong siditig ; i. e., one strongly on the side of the 
virtuous mind. 

5. Milton's trinity of graces. Faith, Hope, and Chastity. 

6. " Thinkest thou that I can not now pray to my Father, 
and he shall presently give me more than twelve legions of 
angels?" Matt, xxvi, 53. 

7. Over-exquisite, Too inquisitive. 

8. To cast. That is, to predict. 

9. Grafit they be so. That is, grant they be evils. 

10. To seek. In the sense of needing to seek or search, 
hence unprepared. 

11. Unprijicipled. That is, wanting in the knowledge 
of the principles of a thing. 

12. Stir. Agitate, as with fear. 

13. Seeks to. Resorts to. 

14. To-ruffled. The " to " is simple augmentation of 
the verb. 

15. The center. Supply " of the earth." 

16. Affects. Is inclined to. 

277 



278 NOTES. 

17. The fabled garden of the Hesperides prodnced 
golden apples. It was one of the labors of Hercules to slay 
the dragon who guarded it. 

18. Unsunned. Kept in the dark. Mammon " suns " 
his treasure when he brings it out to feast his eyes in count- 
ing it over. 

19. Wink on. Close his eyes to. 

20. It recks me not. It matters nothing to me. 

21. To dog. To hunt or track like a hound. 

22. Unowned. Unprotected. 

23. Infer. Argue, 

24. Suspicion that looks with eyes askance. 

25. Quivered nymph. A nymph equipped with bow and 
arrows. 

26. Trace. Traverse. 

27. Infam^ous. Of bad repute. 

28. Bandit e. For bandit. 

29. Shagged. Rough, hence forbidding or fearsome. 

30. Unblenched. Undaunted. 

31. Swart. Black or dark. 

32. Antiquity. He had just cited instances from medi- 
aeval legends. 

33. Arms. Equipment. 

34. Dian. Diana, the goddess of hunting, chastity, and 
marriage, and represented with a bow and arrow. 

35. Brinded. Brindled, of a gray or tawny color, with 
streaks of darker hue. 

36. Gorgon. The name of three frightful maidens, 
whose hair was hissing serpents, and who had wings, brazen 
claws, and enormous teeth. So horrible was one, Medusa, 
that whoever looked upon her was changed into stone. 
Minerva had the Medusa head for the center of her shield 
or breastplate. 

37. Dashed. Put to shame. 

38. Lackey. Serve. 

39. Oft. Frequent. 

40. Clotted. Foul. 



JOHN MILTON. 279 

41. Imbodies a?td imbrutes. That is, the soul assumes 
the material qualities of the body, and becomes brutish in 
its instincts. 

42. Which was to rule, order, and subdue the body by 
its higher instincts and aspiration. 

43. Homer and Virgil. 

44. Chimeras. A fabled monster represented with a 
lion's head, a goat's body, and a dragon's tail, placed by 
Virgil at the gates of hell, (^neid 6, 288.) 

45. The fabled islands of the sirens or sea-nymphs, 
who had the power of charming by their voice all who 
heard them sing. 

46. Navel. Center. 

47. Murmurs. Murmured incantations. 

48. Unmoldifig. Erasing or blotting out. 

49. Charactered. Engraved ; our word character being 
derived from a word applied to an instrument for marking 
or engraving. 

50. A croft is an inclosed field, and the picture is that 
of a field sloping up out of the wood in the hollow. 

51. Stabled wolves. Wolves which are within the 
sheepfold. 

52. Hecate. The queen of the lower world, and god- 
dess of sorcery and witchcraft. 

53. Unweeting. Unsuspicious, unwitting. 

54. Dew-besprent. Besprinkled with dew. 

55. Flighted. Flying. 

56. That. So that. 

57. Still. Ever, always. 

58. Lawns. Open places in the forest, 

59. Period. Sentence. 

60. Enthralled. Enslaved. 

61. 2 Cor, iv, 17. 

62. Griesly. Horrible. 

63. Acheron. The infernal river, but here used for hell 
itself. 

64. Harpies and Hydras. Fabulous horrors. 



28o NOTES. 

65. Purchase. In the early sense of a thing gotten by- 
plundering. 

66. A nymph of Diana, who, when pursued by Apollo, 
was changed into a laurel-tree. 

67. Rind. Outside covering, the body. 

68. Nepenthes. An Egyptian drug given by Polydamna, 
wife of Thone, to Helen, who administered it to her hus- 
band, Menelaus. It was reputed to induce forgetfulness of 
care and indifference to trouble. 

69. Unexempt. That from which no one is exempt. 

70. That have been. Connect that with the you of six 
lines before. » 

71. Vizored. Masked. 

72. Liquorish. Dainty, tempting. 

73- Juno. Queen of heaven and goddess of marriage. 

74. Budge. Austere. Budge was a fur used for the 
edging of gowns worn by scholastics or professional men; 
hence the secondary meaning of scholastic, pedantic, 
surly, etc. 

75. Stoic. Cynic. The Stoics and Cynics both empha- 
sized the virtues of continence and temperance. The Cynic 
tub has reference, of course, to the tub of Diogenes. 

76. Unwithdr awing. I^avish. 

77. Hutched. A hutch is a chest. To hutch is to store 
up as in a chest, 

78. Pulse. Beans, pease, etc. 

79. Frieze. A shaggy woolen cloth. 

80. The meaning of this is plain enough; but it is curi- 
ous that Milton should find diamonds in the deep, and 
their specific gravity such as would bring them to the 
surface. 

81. Grain. There is a reddish dye known as " grain ;" 
and the meaning here seems to be cheeks of sorry or in- 
ferior red. 

82. Sampler. A pattern for sewing. 

83. Tease. Here in the original sense of *' to card." 

84. Vermeil-tinctured. Vermilion-colored. 



JOHN MILTON. 28 1 

85. The six lines which follow are intended for an 
"aside." 

86. Pranked. Decked out. 

87. Bolt. Utter boastingly, 

THE COURAGE OF OBEDIENCE. 

1. Addressed to Cyriack Skinner, and written appar- 
ently (see first line) on the third anniversary of the day on 
which the poet's loss of sight became total. The poem is a 
noble expression of that courageous submission to God's 
will which comes only to one conscious of suffering in the 
line of duty. 

2. Conscience. Consciousness, as in Heb. x, 2, and com- 
monly in Milton's day. 

3. Salmasius, the famous French scholar, at the request 
of Charles II, wrote a treatise on the execution of Charles I. 
Milton prepared the reply, and, when told that the task 
would cost him his remaining eye, said he did not hesitate 
to incur the penalty. 

4. "Surely every man walketh in a vain shew." Psa. 
xxxix, 6. 

TO EVERYTHING A SEASON. 

1. Addressed to Cyriack Skinner, an intimate friend of 
Milton's, and an ardent student of mathematics (Euclid) 
and physics (Archimedes). Comp. line seven. His mother 
was a daughter of Sir Edward Coke, the eminent jurist; 
hence the reference to the " grandsire " in the first four 
lines. 

2. In Greek mythology, Themis is the personification 
of the order of things established by law, custom, and 
equity. 

3. That is, he will indulge in innocent mirth, which 
leaves no sting of bitterness. 

4. Thought to be a reference to the campaigns of 
Charles XII of Sweden, and Louis XIV of France, or per- 
haps to the Thirty Years' War. 



282 NOTES. 

5. "To everything there is a season, and a time to every 
purpose under the heaven." Eccles. iii, i. 

6. " Take therefore no thought for the morrow : for the 
morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Suffi- 
cient unto the day is the evil thereof." Matt, vi, 34. 

ON HIS BLINDNESS. 

1. Milton's blindness came upon him gradually: one eye 
became useless in 1651, when the poet was forty-three years 
old; two years later he became totally blind. 

2. The reference is to the Parable of the Talents in 
Matt. XXV, 14-30. 

3. Fondly. Foolishly. 

4. Milton often refers to his blindness in the spirit of 
a true resignation ; and sometimes as if he thought that 
God, in blinding his bodily eyes, had meant "to enlarge 
and clear his inner vision, and make him one of the world's 
truest seers and prophets." 

THE BETTER PART. 

1. The lady to whom this was addressed is unknown, 

2. Comp. Matt, vii, 13. 

3. Comp. Luke x, 42 ; Ruth i, 14. 

4. Overween. Are arrogant. 

5. Comp. the Parable of the Wise and Foolish Virgins 
(Matt, xxv), and the "hope maketh not ashamed" of Ro- 
mans V, 5. 

THE FLIGHT OF TIME. 

I. "When Milton was reproached by a friend for his ap- 
parently aimless life of mere study, and urged to devote 
his talents to the Church or some other active profession, 
his reply was, that he could not make haste in such a mat- 
ter, and that in the work of life it was not so much a ques- 
tion of being late as of being y?/!'. Nevertheless, he adds: 
" That you may see that I am something suspicious of my- 



JOHX MILTOy. 283 

self, and do take notice of a certain belatedness in me, 
I . . . send Tou some of my uight\Yard thoughts ;" 
whereupon follows this sonnet. 

2. Milton was twenty-three on Dec. 9, 1631, at which 
time also he was a Bachelor of Arts of three years' stand- 
ing, and nearing the end of his stay at Cambridge Uni- 
versity. 

3. Semblance. That is, his youthful appearance. 

4. Endu'ih. Put on. 

5. Still. Ever or continually. 

6. Eve?i. Equal, in proportion. 

7. "He had said, 'It shall be still in strictest measure 
even;' now he corrects himself, 'Nay, all my life is so al- 
ready, if I have grace to use it as in God's sight.' " 

OX THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY. 

1. This poem was composed in 1629, when Milton was 
twenty-one years of age, and a student at Cambridge. The 
argument of the poem turns upon the thought of Christ 
as the Prince of Peace. At his coming as the Son of Mary, 
the world was at peace, and, though his supremacy in the 
earth could only be achieved by the downfall of opposing 
forces, yet the end would be peace. In which assurance the 
poem closes with the peaceful scene of the child at rest in 
his mother's arms. ''Peace begins and peace ends this 
splendid song, and betvreen the goals of peace, in finely- 
contrasted music, the sacred beauty of the Christian heaven 
and the solemn unity of God is set over against the 'dis- 
mal horror' and polytheism of the pagan worship." 

2. The "holy sages" here are the prophets who pre- 
dicted the mediatorial offices of Christ. 

3. Man, by sin, had forfeited God's favor ; the forfeiture 
was perpetual and fatal unless provision had been made 
for forgiveness through Christ's redemption. 

4. Romans v, i, 

5. lVo7it. Used. 



284 NOTES. 

6. John xvii, 5; Philippians ii, 6. 

7. In the later Greek poets, Helios (the sun) is described 
as having a magnificent palace in the east from which he 
starts in the morning in a chariot drawn by four horses. 

8. Wizards. The wise men or magi. Matt. ii. 

9. Prevent. Used here in the old sense of " anticipate," 
as in Psalm cxix, 148, "Mine eyes prevent the night 
watches," and so frequently in Scripture. 

10. Our Ivord's birth was heralded by song of angels. 
Ivuke ii, 13. 

11. A reminiscence of the method of Isaiah's commis- 
sion, in which "one of the seraphim, having a live coal 
which he had taken from off the altar, laid it on my mouth." 
Isa. vi, 6. 

12. Gaudy. Holiday or festival. 

13. Landor sa3'S of stanzas iv-vii that, to his mind, they 
are incomparably the noblest piece of lyric poetry in any 
modern language. 

14. The " hooked " chariot here has probable reference 
to the war-chariot in use among the Persians and Britons, 
the axles of which were mounted with sharp, sickle- shaped 
blades to cut to pieces everything that came in their way. 

15. At the time of our Lord's birth there was universal 
peace among the nations. 

Full of awe. 
Sovereign. 
Hushed. 
To be pronounced as if having three syl- 

'* calm. A reference to the halcyon bird or 
kingfisher. According to the fable, Ceyx, King of Trachis, 
in Thessaly, married Halcyone, daughter of ^olus, god of 
the winds. Upon the death of Ceyx, husband and wife 
were changed into kingfishers, birds which bred at the 
winter solstice, when, through the influence of ^olus, all 
gales were hushed and the sea calmed, so that their float- 
ing nest might ride uninjured over the waves during the 
seven proverbial "halcyon days." 



16. 


Awful. 


17- 


Sovran 


18. 


Whist. 


19. 


Ocean. 


ables. 




20. 


Birds o_ 



JOHN MILTON. 285 

21. The astrologers believed that the stars affected the 
lives and destinies of men, and this power was termed, 
technically, "influence." So in Job xxxviii, 31: "Canst 
thou bind the sweet influences of Pleiades?" 

22. For all. Notwithstanding. 

23. Lucifer. Star of the morning. 

24. Orbs. Used here for orbits. 

25. Bespake. Emphatic for "spake." 

26. Room. Place. 

27. As. For "as if" 

28. Lawn. In the old sense of an open space between 
woods. 

29. Or ere. Before. Compare the "or ever" in Kccles. 
xii, 6: "Or ever the silver cord be loosed," etc. 

30. Than. Old form for "then," used here for the 
rhyme. 

31. Pan. In Greek mythology the god of shepherds. 
By Spenser and Milton used as a poetical rendering of " I 
am the good shepherd." John x, 11. 

32. Silly. Here in the sense of "simple" or "rustic." 

33. Slrook. Struck. 

34. Noise. The word was formerly used for band-music, 
and in the Bible and early English writers the word is fre- 
quently the equivalent of music, as here. 

35. Close. The cadence at the end of a piece of music. 

36. 77^1? hollow roimd. That is, the orbit of the moon. 
The meaning is: "Nature, upon hearing so sweet a sound 
thrilling the earth's atmosphere under the concave of the 
moon's orbit, was now almost won," etc. 

37. Alone. Of or by itself, without nature's aid. 

38. In happier union. Than that of nature. 

39. Quire. Now written choir, and here used to ex- 
press music played in concert. 

40. Unexpressive. Inexpressible. 

41. This whole stanza paraphrases admirably the won- 
derful description of creation in Job xxxviii, 4-1 1. 

42. Wellering. Rolling. 



286 NOTES. 

43. A reference to the "music of the spheres," an an- 
cient notion proceeding upon the theory that the mere 
proper motion of the planets must produce sound, and, as 
the planets move at regular intervals, the sounds must be 
harmonious. According to Plato, a syren sits on each 
planet, who carols a most sweet song, agreeing to the mo- 
tion of her own planet, but harmonizing with the others. 
Milton argued that we might hear this music were our 
hearts pure and our minds not bowed down to earth. 

44. The nine spheres of Milton's system were those of 
the seven planets (the moon, Mercury, Venus, the sun, Mars, 
Jupiter, and Saturn), with that of the stars and \h.Q primujii 
mobile which gave motion to the whole. 

45. Consort. Here used for concert. 

46. Age of Gold. The happy time when all men's good 
shall be each man's rule. 

47. Speckled. Spotted, as with plague-spots. 

48. Peering. To look intently or curiously, to peep. 

49. A reference to the legend of Astrsea, who lived in 
the Golden Age among men, but withdrew to heaven when 
wickedness prevailed. 

50. Sheen. Brightness. 

51. Tissued. Interwoven, 

52. "And the glory which thou gavest me I have given 
them." John xvii, 22. 

53. "The dead in Christ shall rise first." i Thess. iv, 16. 

54. Ychained. Y is the prefix of the past participle, an 
archaic form. 

55. Exodus xix, 16. 

56. Matt, xxiv, 29, 30. 

57. Revelation xx, 1-3. 

58. Swinges. Lashes. 

59. Oracles. The voices of heathen deities. 

60. Delphi was a small town in Phocis, but one of the 
most celebrated in Greece on account of its Oracle of 
Apollo. In the center of the temple ("the prophetic cell") 
was a small opening in the ground, from which, at inter- 



JOHN MILTON. 287 

vals, an intoxicating vapor arose. Over this chasm was 
placed a tripod, on which the priestess, called Pythia, took 
her seat whenever the Oracle was to be consulted. Through 
her, communication was made to the priests, and through 
the priests to the people. 

61. It is thought the description of this stanza refers 
to the universal grief which is said to have pervaded the 
ancient world upon the announcement being made that the 
great god Pan was dead. 

62. Lars were the good and Lemures the evil spirits of 
the dead, the latter being privileged to wander about at 
night and torment the living. Here they stand for ghosts 
of whatever moral qualit5^ 

63. Flameiis. Priests. 

64. Quaint. Here in the sense of an elaborate and ar- 
tistic rite. 

65. Virgil, describing the omens attending Caesar's fate, 
refers to the gods of bronze and ivory which, "in the fanes, 
did weep and sweat with anguish." 

66. The worship of the Phoenicians was a sensual na- 
ture-worship, in which the worship of the sun god held 
chief place. The sun god, Baal, was worshiped under a 
variety of forms and attributes, each of which became a 
separate god, as Peor among the Moabites. 

67. The reference is to i Samuel v, 3, 4, where Dagon, 
the idol of the Philistines, is twice found prostrate before 
the ark of Jehovah. 

68. Ashtaroth is the plural of Ashtareth, as Baalim is 
of Baal. Ashtareth was properly the female reflection of 
the sun god when regarded as creator; hence there were as 
many Ashtaroth as Baalim. Later, Ashtoreth came to rep- 
resent the moon. 

69. Hammon. An Egyptian deity, protector of flocks, 
and represented with the horns of a ram. 

70. Thanimuz. The Syrian god of love, who, dying of 
a wound received from a boar, was annually mourned by 
women. 



288 NOTES. 

71. The sun god was worshiped by the Israelites under 
the name Moloch. The idol was of brass and hollow. It 
w^as heated with fire from within, and the children were 
consumed in his outstretched arms, while their cries were 
drowned in the noise of drums and cymbals. 

72. Grisly. Frightful, horrible. 

73. Osiris was a chief divinity among the Egyptians. 
Isis was his consort, and Orus his child. Of the animals 
worshiped by this people, the chief were the bull Apis and 
the dog Anubis. 

74. The worship of the bull Apis was connected with 
that of Osiris; hence, by substitution, the "lowings." 
Osiris was not in the form of a bull. 

75. Osiris, according to the tradition, was, at the insti- 
gation of his brother Set, placed in a chest, thrown into the 
Nile, and borne away by the river. 

76. Sable-stoled. Black-robed. Sorcerers. Here in the 
sense of priests. 

77. Eyn. Old plural of eye. 

78. Typhon. According to the Greek myth, the mon- 
strous son of Gsea, who, revolting against Jupiter, was cast 
into Tartarus. 

79. In bed, but in the act of rising, as the word "orient" 
further on shows. 

80. Manifestly the ghost is "fettered" only in the sense 
that he is doomed to walk the earth ; and though at dawn 
he slips into his separate grave, it is but to reappear at 
night. 

81. Fays. Fairies. 

82. The "night-steeds" which draw the chariot of the 
night. 

83. The" reference here is to the "star of Bethlehem," 
which signified to the wise men the birth of Christ. 
Matt, ii, 2. 

84. "The star went before them (the wise men), and 
stood over where the young child was." 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 289 

85. Bright-hartiessed. In bright armor. Ahab's armor, 
in I Kings xxii, 34, is called " harness." 

86. Serviceable. Not simply able, but prepared and 
ready to serve. 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 

ODE. 

1. "The morning breeze coming from the fields that 
were dark during the hours of sleep." Knight. 

2. Pansy. French, "Pensee." Cf. Hamlet^ "Pansies, 
that 's for thoughts." 

3. The poet owes this thought to Plato, but the idea 
commends itself to Wordsworth very differently from what 
it did to the Greek philosopher. 

4. Humorous stage. The stage whereon are displayed 
humors ; that is, whims, fancies. 

5. With all the Persons. That is> with the dramatis 
personce. 

6. This figure, describing one sense in terms of an- 
other, is illustrated in another of Wordsworth's poems, 
where he speaks of "soft e3'e-music." 

7. Coleridge says of this passage : " In what sen-se can 
the magnificent attributes, above quoted, be appropriated 
to a child, which would not make them equally suitable to a 
bee, or a dog, or a field of corn, or even to a ship, or to the 
wind and waves that propel it.'' The Omnipresent Spirit 
works equally in them as in the child, and the child is 
equally unconscious of it as they." 

8. Falli7igs from us, vaiiishi^igs. "The outward, sens- 
ible universe, visible and tangible, seeming to fall awa}^ 
from us as unreal, to vanish in unsubstantiality." (Knight.) 
Wordsworth once said to Professor Bonamy Price : " There 
was a time in my life when I had to push against something 
that resisted, to be sure that there was anything outside 
of me." 

19 



290 NOTES. 

CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR. 

1. That is, has retained his ideals. 

2. If they come at all. That is, wealth, honors, and 
worldly state. 

3. Wordsworth states, in a note to this poem, that many 
of the passages were suggested by what is known as excel- 
lent in the character of Lord Nelson, who died shortly be- 
fore it was written. He adds, however, that many elements 
of the character of the "Happy Warrior" were drawn from 
his brother John, who perished by shipwreck when in the 
service of the Bast India Company. 

ODE TO DUTY. 

1. The Latin original of this quotation is as follows : 
"Jam non consilio bonus, sed more eo perductus, ut non 
tantum recte facere possim, sed nisi recte facere non 
possim." 

2. Genial. Native, natural, innate. 

3. The word charter conveys to the Englishman the 
sense of "liberty secured by law." 

4. "Perhaps Wordsworth alone," says Mr. R. H. Hutton, 
"of all the great men of that day, had seen the light of the 
countenance of God shining clear in the face of Duty." 

"THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US; LATE AND 
SOON." 

1. That is, the cares of business and worldly life put us 
out of sympathy with nature. 

2. Proteus. In Grecian mythology, a son of Neptune. 
His peculiar power was that of changing his shape at will. 

3. Triton. The son of Neptune and Amphitrite, and 
his father's trumpeter. 

THE LOVE OF BOOKS. 

1. Shakespeare's "Othello." 

2. Spenser's " Faerie Queen." 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 29 1 

THE GAIN OF BOOKS. 

I. That this prayer was answered literally, we know 
now; for Wordsworth, by common critical consent, takes 
his place with the great immortals. 

AFTER-THOUGHT. 

I. The river Duddon, which Wordsworth has celebrated 
in a series of sonnets, empties into the Irish Sea, and di- 
vides Lancashire from Cumberland in the "lake "region 
of England. 4 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 

THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. 

1. Rime. White or hoar frost. 

2. Cerement. Grave-cloth. 

3. This pathetic fact is mentioned in the report to Par- 
liament. 

THE CRY OF THE HUMAN. 

1. Psalm xiv, i. 

2. Wains. Wagons or harvest-carts. 

3. Chimar. Robe. 

4. Centaur^s. The reference is to Nessus, the centaur, 
whose poisoned robe was given to Hercules, thus insuring 
the latter's death in agon}-. 

5. Glassed. Mirrored. 

6. Wist. Knew. 

COWPER'S GRAVE. 

1. In Cowper's correspondence during the Olney period 
there are man}- references to his pet hares, his gardening, 
and his greenhouse. 

2. Cowper was always provided for b}^ friends, who 



292 NOTES. 

either found him occupation or cherished his companion- 
ship in their own homes. 

3. In his periods of depression, Cowper avowed himself 
deserted of man and God alike. 

4. Matthew xxvii, 46. 

WORK. 
I. Assoil. Release. 

SUBSTITUTION. 

1. Faunus. The god of pastoral minstrelsy. 

2. Spheric laws self-chanted. A reference to the har- 
mony of the spheres, whose perfect adjustment to each 
other, the philosophers taught, produced a concord of 
sweet sounds. 

FUTURITY. 

1. Witch. Bewitch. 

2. New Memnons. A reference to the statue of Mem- 
non, which was said to give forth music at the rising of 
the sun. 

THE LOOK. 
I. The incident is recorded by Luke xxii, 61, seq. 

THE MEANING OF THE LOOK. 

1. The word Peter in Greek signifies a stone. 

2. A reference to Matt, iv, 7, the words being quoted 
from Psa. xci, 11, 12. 

3. John xiii, 6-9. 

WORK AND CONTEMPLATION. 

1, Barcarole. The song of the Venetian gondolier. 

2. Mirk. Dark, 



ROBERT BROWNING. 293 

ROBERT BROWNING. 

AN EPISTlvE. 

1. This town. Bethany. 

2. Exhibition. In the medical sense of "adminis- 
tration." 

3. Figment. The story of Lazarus is to him a fiction, 
but au exceptional fiction. 

4. Just as a beggar of middle-life, with fixed ideas and 
habits, who should suddenly come into a fortune, and find 
himself without the power of handling it wisely, so Laza- 
rus, temporarily admitted to heaven, and returned to earth 
again, has, in the change, lost all sense of the proportion 
of things. 

5. The thought is: Lazarus, in his changed view of 
things, regards death as a natural and not altogether un- 
happy thing; but a word or gesture, suggesting the power 
of evil, throws him into an agony of fear, just as in the 
case of their former teacher, who was startled at their 
heedless recitation of a charm which had power to upturn 
a universe. 

6. Thou (Abib) and the child have (for him, i. e., Laza- 
rus) each, etc, 

7. Greek fire. The precursor of gunpowder, and a 
highly-inflammable substance. 

8. When Rome, etc. During our Lord's ministry, Pal- 
estine was subject to Roman sw^ay. Shortly after his death, 
the troublous character of the Jews brought upon their 
country the sharp punishment of the destruction of Jeru- 
salem by Roman arms. 

9. Aleppo was a city of Syria, and the blue-flowering 
borage was supposed to have peculiar and powerful medic- 
inal qualities. 

10. This bit of detail is added to account scientifically 
(if possible) for the peculiar impression made upon him 
by Lazarus. The country, the appearance of the moon, the 



294 NOTES. 

wailing wind, and the fatigue, liad all had an effect in mak- 
ing him susceptible to narratives of the supernatural. 
IT. Ambiguous Syrian. His letter-carrier. 

12. Jerusalem'' s repose. That is, when he arrives at the 
capital, and has a good opportunity for rest, he will be able 
to write of more sensible things. 

13. The postscript, however, tells the story of his heart's 
hope, "the yearning cry of the human heart for a God of 
love, the consciousness of the complete satisfaction, the 
peace, the rest, that the knowledge of such a truth would 
give." 

SAUL. 

1. So in Rabbi Ben Ezra: 

"Grow old along with me! 
The best is yet to be 
The last of life for which the first was made." 

2. A reference to i Samuel xvii, 45, where David meets 
Goliath. 

3. These lines indicate the scene of the writing of this 
reminiscence. He is in the fields at dawn, looking at He- 
bron being unveiled by the sun, and at Kidron renewing 
the verdure blighted by the sunshine of the day before. 

4. The armlet was part of the iusigijia of royalty, and is 
still worn by Oriental princes. Kitto reports that the armlets 
of the king of Persia were worth five millions of dollars. 

5. This is the turning-point of David's power to help. 
It was to this outburst of love that the vision of Christ was 
revealed. It is connected immediately with the line, " Then 
the truth came upon me," etc. 

6. The thought is that, upon looking over God's uni- 
verse, he is convinced of his own want of perfection and of 
God's perfectness. Shall he then, a man, desire any good 
for a fellow-man which God will not? Certainly not, else 
man would in love outstrip the Divine, He desires for Saul 
a new life, God too desires it; hence the vision of Christ, 
the source of the new life, to whom David directs Saul. 

7. Impuissa7tce. Weakness. 



ROBERT BROWNING, 295 



RABBI BEN EZRA. 

1. That is, I do not remonstrate that Youth, amassing 
flowers, sighed, "Which rose," etc. 

2. The "honest doubt" of Tennyson ("In Memoriam"), 
which is characteristic only of strong and aspiring natures. 

3. Does care disturb the crop- full bird? Does doubt 
fret the maw-crammed beast? 

4. Hold. In the sense of deriving a right or title. 
The thought is, Our nature is more like that of God who 
gives than that of his tribes who take. 

5. Whose chief thought is to provide for bodily well- 
being. 

6. The best use of the body is to minister to the soul. 

7. Nevertheless, all God's gifts are good; life in the 
flesh is not necessarily or wholly an evil ; and right it is for 
the heart to enjoy gratefully the power and perfection of 
God seen on every side. 

8. Youth should pass to maturit}^ more godlike from 
its enjoyment of, and association with, all these riches of 
his inheritance. Here, and in the following stanzas. Youth 
is personified and speaking. 

9. Itidue. Put on. 

10. Youth is a time of uncertainty; it has to make 
judgments without experience, and in the midst of the 
conflict. Maturity furnishes a proper perspective and the 
knowledge of good and evil. 

11. It is enough if with age one has such a develop- 
ment of spirit that he knows things good, right, and in- 
finite, just as he knows his hand to be his own. 

12. Supply the relatives: Was I whom . . . Were they 
whom . . . right? The reference is to the aims of life 
about which moralists strive. 

13. The world judges a man by his "work;" God judges 
him by his "worth." 

14. The figure of the potter's wheel is found in Isaiah 
Ixiv, 8; Jeremiah xviii, 6; Romans ix, 20, 21. 



296 NOTES. 

15, References to the embellishments of the cup or 
vase. 

16. A reference to our Savior's words in Matt, xxvi, 29. 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 



IN MEMORIAM. 



1. This is the intuitional argument for immortality in 
two lines. 

2. These titles are entirely arbitrary, and given simply 
as a hint at the dominant thought in the passages following. 

3. The "him" has not been identified, but the idea has 
been called the Creed of Goethe. 

4. Dead selves. Not simply adverse, but all experiences 
of human life. 

5. A reference to the customs at ancient funerals, where 
professional mourners gave violent expression to grief. 

6. The thought of this section is, that grief with love 
may discipline to high character; is, in fact, an experience 
upon which one may indeed rise to "higher things." 

7. Bereavement gathers gloom, and in the gloom. Sor- 
row raises doubts, hinting that even Nature may be a hol- 
low mockery. 

8. That is, he envies not any rest which is the result of. 
insensibility. 

9. Bereavement implies love, and love is a great and 
substantial good. 

10. The connection and argument is as follows: The 
preceding section had introduced the thought of Christ- 
mas. Christmas is a day of hope. The Christ who raised 
I^azarus is still in the world, with whatever revelation of 
the future life is needed for the simplest of his creatures. 
Mary had no curiosity about the world beyond, from which 
her brother had just been brought, so content was her 
heart in the rapture of being with her brother and with her 



A FRED TENNYSON. 297 

Lord. Though her faith was mainly affection, yet it woukl 
be a distinct disservice to disturb that faith by the asserted 
superiority of a faith based upon reason. The reference 
is, of course, to the scene at Bethany, recorded by John xi 
and xii. 

11. That is, Lazarus made no answer which, as a reve- 
lation from the other world, would have made it easier to 
believe that "Blessed are the dead." 

12. A faith reached through contest with doubt has its 
own worth, but it is not necessarily higher or better than 
Mary's faith achieved in the strength of a pure affection. 
A faith through form has its uses and value, and this may 
be brought home in a crisis to the man who finds his faith- 
beyoud-the-form an inadequate quantity. 

13. Our intuitions of immortality were interpreted to 
us and given form in the teaching of Christ. Life and im- 
mortality are brought to light in the gospel. 

14. Closest words. That is, in the philosophical Jterms 
of the schools. 

15. A reference to the uncivilized inhabitants of the 
Pacific islands, a type of the lowest intelligence. 

16. A reference to .the life of Christ. Even with the 
example of Christ before him, the Christian does not, in 
this world, realize his ideal ; nevertheless he must strive as 
he can until the end, when his measure of worth is "gath- 
ered in." 

17. In reading this much-quoted passage it should be 
noted that the emphasis comes upon the contrasted terms 
"trust" and "know." 

18. The thought of immortality is suggested by that in 
us which is most like God. Nature suggests destruction 
and willful waste, but the heart of man is unwilling to ac- 
cept the suggestion. The poet, therefore, falls back on 
faith, and, looking up in prayer to God, trusts the larger 
hope, which his heart cherishes and will not resign. 

19. " That the way to God is a steep stair, rising through 
night to light, is a familiar conception. But grandly orig- 



298 NOTES. 

inal is the thought that this stair is an 'altar '-stair, and 
that the great world itself is an altar, upon which every- 
thing that lives, if it will save its life, must offer itself in 
sacrifice to God." 

20. Ravine. Plunder. 

21. Thy voice. That is, the voice of his friend. 

22. The solution of the dark problems of the present 
life is referred to the clearness and coherence of the fu- 
ture life. 

23. The poet imagines his friend in heaven vastly in 
advance of, but not entirely lost to sympathy with him. 

24. Some have found in this a reference to the late 
Lord Beaconsfield, who was a Jew at a time when the Jews 
were not in favor in English politics. 

25. The poet, in recalling the pleasure of the earthly 
friendship, makes it the basis for anticipation of even 
greater pleasure under the conditions of life in the spirit- 
world. 

26. The remembrance of the dead friend takes shape in 
a succession of dreams. He sees his friend, but finds " a 
trouble " in his eye, which, upon waking, he discovers to 
have been his own distress of soul transferred to the face 
of his friend. 

27. In this and the succeeding sections the poet de- 
scribes his friend's life as it might have been — a noble, use- 
ful, happy, and blessed life. 

28. Hallam was engaged to Tennyson's sister Emily. 

29. In the development of the poem, the poet, having 
passed the acute stage of grief, had begun to acquiesce in 
his loss, and find content in memories of the past and hopes 
for the future. Here his grief overwhelms him again. 

30. In this section the poet describes more particularly 
his friend's character, accomplishments, and influence. 

31. The Englishman's view of the French Revolution. 

32. Rathe. Younger. 

33. In this section, while the poet describes the condi- 
tion of heart and mind required for spiritual communion 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 299 

with the dead, he also sets forth the condition required for 
proper communion with God, the Father of spirits. 

34. It has been sug-gested that the reference may be to 
one of the poet's sisters. 

35. The reference here may be to Rev. F. D. Maurice, or 
Rev. W. F. Robertson ; perhaps to Hallam himself. 

36. Exodus xxxii. 

37. Again Christmas has come, and the thought of it 
moves the poet to a song of exhortation that Christ's reign 
may begin at once in the hearts of all people. 

38. The poet has a place for knowledge, but it is not 
first; rather is it subordinate to wisdom, especially that 
wisdom which is from above. 

39. That is, knowledge, uncontrolled by wisdom, be- 
comes wanton and reckless, and invites disaster. 

40. Arthur Hallam. He was but twenty-two at his 
death. 

41. I Cor. XV, 32. 

42. His argument is, that if men are only cla}^, and die 
with their bodies, of what moment, then, is science, or the 
noble struggle against evil or adverse fate? 

43. "This section contains a remarkable exposition of 
the nebular hypothesis as sanctioned b}^ geologists." The 
argument is, that man crowns a creation in which develop- 
ment is the normal process. It is absurd to think that 
man, possessing love and truth as nature does not, should 
have no higher development possible. 

44. We do not apprehend God by any effort of the 
understanding. He is not revealed to us by any grandeur 
in nature, nor by any argument of adaptation, but directly 
through faith to heart and conscience. 

45. These sections contain the poet's conclusion of the 
whole matter — that the universe is under the administra- 
tion of Love, and that all things work together for good. 

46. Another reference to French instability and im- 
petuosity. Comp. Note 31. 



300 NOTES. 

THE PAIvACE OF ART. 

1. Saturn, shining as it does by the light of the sun 
upon it, casts upon his ring perpetual shadows. 

2. Arras. . Tapestry. Note the perfection of the word- 
pictures which follow. 

3. A reference to the fact that olive-leaves are whitish- 
gray upon the underside, and that this color shows when 
the wind turns the leaves over. 

4. The Ionian father. Homer. 

5. The picture here is a symbol of France in the great 
revolution. 

6. She. The soul. 

7. Verulam. Lord Bacon. 

8. The statue of Memnon, near Thebes, was said to 
give forth the sound of music at the rising of the sun, 

9. A reference to the swine of Gadara. Matt, viii, 32. 

10. The pitiable death of Herod is related in Acts xii. 

11. Compare the vision of Nebuchadnezzar in Daniel v. 

12. Circumstance. The surrounding universe. 

13. Dully. Poetical for dull. 

14. " The essence of the sin was not culture, but the 
selfishness and aristocraticism of cultured pride; not de- 
light, w^hether of the senses or of the mind, but delight 
unshared by others ; not abstention from the partisanship 
of creeds, but contemptuous isolation from those who ac- 
cept them, and lack of sympathetic appreciation of the 
truth they contain. Such isolation, such pride, such cul- 
ture, are indeed damnable." Bayne. 

THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 

1. He. Sir Bedivere, 

2. Brand. Sword. 

3. Excalibur. The mystic sword received by Arthur 
from the Lady of the Lake, which Sir Bedivere is now com- 
manded to return to her. 

4. Bedivere, in the "Coming of Arthur," is described as 
"the first of all his knights, bold in heart and act and word." 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 30 1 

5. Lief. Beloved. 

6. Lightly. Swiftly. 

7. Note here the subtlety with which Sir Bedivere ar- 
gues against his clear sense of duty. 

8. For. Here in the sense of "because." 

9. "Never 5'et in any poetry did auy sword, flung in air, 
flash so superbly." 

10. Northern morn. The Aurora Borealis. 

11. Samite. A silk stuff generall}^ interwoven with 
gold. 

12. The five lines following contain "as clear a piece of 
ringing, smiting, clashing sound as any to be found in 
Tennyson." 

13. Ware. Aware. 

14. Black-stoled. Robed in black. 

15. Cuisses. Armor for the thighs. 

16. Elders. The wise men from the east, led by the 
star to the birthplace of Christ at Bethlehem. 

17. The Celtic heaven, where all wounds are healed and 
where dwells perpetual youth. 

IN THE CHILDREN'S HOSPITAI,. 

I. Oorali. A drug which acts by paralyzing the nerves 
of motion, whilst those of sensation are left unimpaired. 

MERLIN AND THE GLEAM. 

1. A reference to the early conviction of his call to be 
a poet, and of his first inspirations. 

2. By this we may understand the poet's critics, who 
disparaged alike his work and his calling. 

3. Describing the themes over which his poetic gift 
threw graces of verse and splendid imagination. 

4. A reference to his numerous and extended attempts 
at suitably interpreting the story of King Arthur. 

5. A testimony to the eagerness of soul with which, 
even in old age, he followed the spirit of his calling as a 
prophet of truth. 



302 NOTES. 

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 

OUR MASTKR. 

1. Holocaust. Burnt offering. 

2. Cf. Coleridge: 

"He prayeth best who loveth best 
All things, both great and small." 

3. Litanies and liturgies here stand for religious forms 
in general. 

THE ETERNAL GOODNESS. 

1. Mete and bound. Measure and limit. 

2. Cf. Tennyson : 

"But O, for the touch of a vanished hand, 
And the sound of a voice that is still!" 

3. Isaiah xlii, 3. 

4. Fronded. Having leaf-like expansions which in- 
clude both stem and foliage. 

MY SOUL AND L 

1. Whittier's part in the anti-slavery struggle is well 
known. 

2. hiane. n. Void. 

3. Genesis xxxii, 26. 

4. Cf. Wordsworth : 

• " Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows 
Like harmony in music. There 's a dark 
Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles 
Discordant elements, makes them cling together 
In one society." 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 

THE LEGEND BEAUTIFUL. 

1. The Elysian Fields are, in Greek mythology, the 
abode of the blessed after death. 

2. Matthew xxv, 40. 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 303 

THE BLIGHT OF WORLDI.INKSS. 

I. Morituri Salutamus. "We who are about to die, 
salute you!" The Roman gladiators, before engaging in 
their contests, made this salutation before the imperial 
throne. 

THE LADDER OF SAINT AUGUSTINE. 

I. St. Augustine, Sermon III, De Ascensione: "De vitiis 
uostris scalam nobis facimus, si vitia ipsa calcamus." 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 

THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 

1. Compare Wordsworth: 

"Heaven lies about us in our infancy!" 

2. We Sinais climb. We come into exalted sur- 
roundings. 

3. Beiiedicite. The canticle or hymn beginning, in 
Latin, "Benedicite omnia opera Domini;" in English, "O, 
all ye works of the Lord, bless the Lord." 

4. Nice. Fastidious, discriminating, exact. 

5. Rushes were formerly strewn upon floors by way of 
covering. 

6. Maiden. New, fresh, hitherto untried. 

7. Made morn. Sir Launfal comes out of the gloom 
like the sun out of the night. 

8. 'Gan shrink. Began to shrink. 

9. Luke xxi, 3. 

10. Wold. An open tract of country. 

11. Corbel. A projection from the vertical face of a 
wall, serving as a support. 

12. Seneschal. Steward. 

13. Reck. To take heed of. 

14. The same idea of the Christ-life noted in the pre- 
ceding poems by Lowell. 



304 NOTES. 

15. Expresses the knight's contrition. 

16. St. John X, 9. 

A GIvANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN. 

1. Savage clime. North America. 

2. Daniel v, 5. 

3. Thebes. An ancient city of Boeotia in Greece. My- 
thology tells that, during the building of the walls of 
Thebes, Amphion had but to strike his lyre, and large 
Stones followed whither he led the way. 

4. There most is He, for there is he most needed. The 
same idea of Christ's protectorate over the weak and the 
downtrodden that we note in "A Parable," "The Search," 
and "The Vision of Sir Launfal." In this poem we find an 
application of the idea to a living, practical interest. 

5. Blore force in names than most me7i dream of. Cf. 
Shakespeare: "What's in a name?" 

6. Fond. Foolish. 

7. Hampden was mortally wounded in a skirmish on 
Chalgrove Field in 1643. 

THE SEARCH. 

1. Thebes. A chief city of ancient Eg3^pt, remarkable 
to-day for its splendid ruins. 

2. Witless. Wanting thought ; therefore, careless. 

A PARABIvE. 

1. The Jews looked for the Messiah to come with pomp 
and glory. So, to-day, men forget the humility, the lowli- 
ness of the Master. 

2. This description refers to any worship that considers 
form, doctrine, or precedent to the exclusion of the more 
immediate applications of Christ's teachings. 

3. Cf. Matthew xxv, 24, 25. 

4. Cf. Matthew xxv, 45. 





014 013 705 4 



